Old Wounds
by Ciara in cotton socks
Summary: Ten years on, life has taken New Directions on separate paths.  An unexpected tragedy brings them back together, but is something more sinister brewing beneath the surface?
1. Chapter 1

Noah Puckerman clambered out of his beat-up old pickup truck and made his way wearily up the steps to the apartment block in front of him. He was dressed in well-worn blue jeans and a tight white vest top that showed off his guns. His hands were rough and calloused, stained with the evidence and exertion of a hard day's work. He leaned against the cool paintwork of the front door, waiting to be let in. The aluminium felt pleasant against his warm skin; it was a hot day in Lima, Ohio, and the back of his neck burned a little.

As he waited, a sigh fluttered through Puck's lips. He felt weary, and bored out of his skull. Lima was the same backwoods cow-town he had thought it to be in his youth, but despite all his claims aged sixteen that he would never be a 'Lima Loser', here he was. He had had all sorts of grand plans in high school- football scholarships, a record deal, you name it. But the truth of the matter was, Puck had never had much drive. In the end, contrary to everything he had professed, here he was. Twenty-seven years of age, still living with his mom, and working as a grease monkey in Hummel Tires and Lube. He wasn't sure that he was a typical Lima loser- one thing he had made certain of was that he wouldn't be a deadbeat like his dad- but he figured it was pretty close. The idea stung his pride a little.

He still thought back to high school sometimes, but more often than not it just made him realise all over again how he had never gone on to bigger and better things. He didn't really see any of the old crew that often anymore; they had all grown up and moved on, apart from him and Santana. Britt and Artie were living in Westerville- he'd been to the wedding two years ago, and that was the last time he had spoken to most of his former friends- but they were so busy with life that they didn't really have time to keep in touch. Artie was a computer programmer for some hi-spec firm and Britt was making a small fortune with that dance school of hers. The Brittany Pierce Puck had known could barely tie her own shoelaces without assistance, and while he knew she still maintained her childlike innocence, she was a natural with the kids. Parents from all over Ohio had their kids on waiting lists to get into her classes. Santana still spoke to their old friend pretty regularly, and she said that Britt and Artie were trying for a baby. Puck couldn't think of a couple who would make better parents.

His thoughts were interrupted by the brash buzzing that signalled he was being let up. Eager for company, he bounded up the stairs two at a time and hammered on the door of apartment 21. He waited for a moment, panting with a mixture of exertion and anticipation, until the door opened.

Santana Lopez stood before him, leaning against the doorframe with her trademark smirk in place. The years since McKinley had been kind to her, but although she swore it due to a careful diet and exercise regime, Puck was of the opinion that the boob job she had their junior year hadn't been the end of her cosmetic work. Having said that, her body was still to die for. He could feel his breath quicken just at the sight of her. She wore grey sweatpants and had on a red Adidas track top. Puck felt a smile rise on his lips at that; ever since Santana had taken over from Coach Sylvester as the Cheerios' coach, she had continued this aspect of her mentor's tradition. However, as Puck stared, she began to tug at the zipper and he realised that she was wearing nothing beneath the red fabric apart from a lacy black bra. His pulse quickened as she pulled him inside, still wearing that smirk of hers.

"Uh... can we... I mean..."

"Relax Puckerbutt," Santana teased playfully. She started to make her way towards her small bedroom, tugging her hair from its restricting ponytail as she went. "Carmen's on a sleepover at her friend's house."

A sigh of relief escaped Puck and he followed her hastily. Santana turned unexpectedly and he caught her, hoisting her up onto his hips with expertise and nipping at her exposed neck. Santana was good at this; they knew each other well and each could anticipate how the other would move. She pressed her lips to Puck's hungrily as they fell down onto the bed and began to scrabble at the zipper of his jeans as he shimmied her sweatpants over her thin hips. They moved as one and quickly she was left lying in only her bra and thong, barely-there wisps of lace that made Puck want her more than ever.

"I know you've got a thing for doing the bra yourself," Santana said silkily, arching herself so that they were flush to each other. Puck grinned wolfishly and turned her, quickly removing the bra with expertise. The pair slid their hands over each other fluidly, melting effortlessly into each other. Puck and Santana had been doing this since high school, and though it had never worked as a relationship they still found comfort and companionship in each other's touch. Both had had relationships after high school, the most notable of which being a six-month fling with a DJ from Carmel that left Santana with a baby and no financial support, but the only constants in their lives had become each other. It wasn't even about the sex so much anymore, although that was still the easiest part of what they had. It was more about afterwards, when they had gone long enough for even Puck to be exhausted, and they would just lie there and talk to each other in hushed, quiet voices. Above all, for Puck at least, and he was pretty sure Santana felt the same, it was about feeling that he wasn't the only one life had left behind.

"San, do you ever miss them?" was the question Puck posed today, rolling languidly onto his side to face her. Santana bit her lip for a moment in contemplation and then her expression cleared.

"Every day," she whispered huskily, and there was such undisguised pain in her eyes that Puck felt a sudden urge to hold her and make that hurt go away. Instead, however, he spoke in what he hoped was a comforting voice.

"Me too. Sometimes, I just wish we could go back to when we were still kids, you know, and the only things we had to worry about were English papers and who was hookin' up with who..."

For one moment, Santana looked at him with that same haunted expression, but then she jabbed him in the ribs with her bony elbow and the moment was gone.

"What the hell, Puckerman? Y'know, if I wanted to be with a girl, I could be," she smirked. Puck rolled his eyes and sat upright, pulling his boxers back on. Outside, he could hear the traffic rushing by. Languidly, he made his way across the room and pulled back the drapes to look out at the world ticking by down below. There was a rustle as Santana came to stand next to him, wrapped in her pale peach bed sheet with her hair hanging in a dark tangle around her face. The two of them stood in peaceful silence until, out of nowhere, Santana swore under her breath.

"Jeez, looks like something nasty just went down," she said in a hushed voice as they watched a caravan of ambulances and police cars tear down the street outside. Puck shivered and was secretly glad when Santana curled into his side. It felt pleasantly comfortable, having her hold him like this on those rare occasions when she allowed emotion to creep through her icy façade.

"I wonder who the poor bastard is?" he mused.

**/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/**

**A/N: I know it's started off slow, but please bear with me! The first few chapters will involve setting the scene, but once we get everyone back to Lima the pace will pick up, I promise. In the meantime, please review with your thoughts and/or ideas on what should be going on with the other former gleeks!**


	2. Chapter 2

It was a dark, drizzly night in New York City. Thunder rolled in the cloud-mottled sky overhead as a sleek black town car pulled up to the kerb outside Dante's Italian bistro on the Upper West Side. A petite figure slid from the backseat holding an umbrella above her head as a fork of lightning streaked across the night sky.

"Have a good night, miss," the driver called jovially as he prepared to pull away. "I'll collect you and Mr Hudson whenever you're ready."

"Thank you Arthur," Rachel replied with airy poise. She raised her hand in farewell before hurrying into the warmth of the bistro. There was a chorus of wondering murmurs as she shook out her umbrella and removed the calf-length caramel trench coat she had been wearing. A knowing smile crossed her face and she waved patiently to the group of forty-something women sipping wine at a table near the bar. She was used to this by now; the trials of being a Broadway leading lady.

Eventually, a tall olive-skinned waiter appeared at her elbow and ordered a younger waitress, perky and blonde in a way that reminded Rachel irresistibly of Quinn Fabray, to take her things to the cloakroom. Then he directed Rachel to a booth behind a burgundy rope partition where a familiar figure was waiting. The smile which now crossed her face was warmer.

"Good show?" Finn asked, standing up to envelop her in a close embrace. Rachel fell into his touch gratefully. His smell, a curious combination of coffee, chocolate and freshly-mown grass, was a comfort to her on nights like these, when she was drained from performing on stage and just wanted to feel as though somebody loved her instead of the character she portrayed.

"Wonderful," she beamed. "We had a fantastic audience, and you know how I feel that always adds an extra element to the performance, don't you? They were _perfect_, five curtain calls they demanded- _five_! Oh Finn, you should have been there, it was-"

"Rach," Finn said with an amused grin. "You're rambling again."

"Sorry," she replied immediately, and she meant it. The prima-donna Rachel from high school had matured in the years since they had left Ohio together, mainly due to the fact that she could see how bored Finn became with her over-the-top reactions and how he could quickly see through her showface to the person beneath. It had taken them a while to mend the bridges they had broken at sixteen, but eventually a tentative relationship had blossomed again and by the time they graduated from McKinley they had been stronger than ever. The pair had decided to come to New York together; Rachel had been accepted to the prestigious Tisch School of the Arts at NYU, while Finn after some deliberation had decided to train as a teacher. Now, Rachel was starring as Maria in _West Side Story_ and Finn was happy teaching sophomore English and coaching his school's glee club. They were no New Directions (_How could they be?_ Rachel mused. _They don't have me!_) but they were good, and Finn loved coaching them. Rachel figured it was probably Will Schuester's influence; Finn had always had nothing short of admiration for their high school teacher.

"So, how was your day?" Rachel asked brightly, just as the olive-skinned waiter returned to take their order. Rachel chose the mushroom ravioli, while Finn opted for a steaming plate of spaghetti Bolognese. He also ordered a bottle of the house red, shooting Rachel a lopsided smile as he did so. He knew she had a penchant for red wine. Rachel returned his smile and studied him carefully as he made small-talk with the waiter. In many ways, Finn still looked the same as he had in high school. Same broad shoulders, same slightly awkward, loping gait, same shock of brown hair. But instead of the jeans-and-sweater combos he used to wear in high school, he was dressed in a smart shirt and tie. There were more furrows in his brow, and stubble dotted his strong jaw line. He looked much older, but then so did she. She had cut her hair a little shorter, giving her face a more mature look. The demanding nature of her position had given her strong leg and arm muscles and she had finally learned how to apply makeup without looking like a 'sad clown hooker'. Thankfully, her dress sense had also improved marginally since her time at McKinley High School. Gone were the animal-embroidered sweaters and plaid skirts, replaced by a chocolate-brown pencil dress and caramel-coloured stilettos. They had both grown up a lot since McKinley, where Finn was the popular quarterback and Rachel the annoyingly preppy glee freak. She smiled as she thought about how much they had changed. The waiter moved away and she waved a hand in front of Finn. "How was your day?" she repeated with a slight laugh.

"Oh, it was great," Finn said with tired enthusiasm. "The kids are doing Journey for Sectionals, can you believe that? They found some video of New Directions on Youtube- Kurt's doing, you mark my words- and I guess it sparked something in them."

He shook his head with a bark of laughter which Rachel echoed. No doubt, Finn was right; Kurt was bound to be the one who had uploaded their videos onto the internet. Finn's stepbrother had always had a penchant for technology.

"We should look them up when we get home," she said quietly. "It would be nice to see the whole group together, it's been far too long."

"Sure has," Finn agreed. A serious expression washed over his face and he leaned over to take Rachel's hand in his, running a finger over the gold engagement band on her ring finger with satisfaction. "Rach, we need to go home. To Ohio, I mean. To tell people. I-I'd really like to tell my mom face-to-face, you know?"

"Of course," Rachel smiled broadly. "I've been thinking the same thing myself. Of course, I'll have to wait a while before I can take some time off from the show, and it will kill me to hand over the iconic role of Maria to that understudy, Tessa something-or-other and-"

Her ramblings were interrupted, however, by the loud ringing of Finn's cell phone. With an apologetic glance at his new fiancée, Finn fished it from his pocket. He didn't appear to recognise the number, and answered with a tentative "Hello?"

The person on the other end of the line spoke quickly and loudly, though Rachel couldn't quite make out what they were saying. Finn gave a worried little sigh and massaged his temples as he listened to the caller carefully. Eventually, whoever it was stopped talking and Finn glanced around agitatedly.

"What is it?" Rachel asked, anxious.

Finn lowered the phone for a moment and mouthed "Mike."

"Again?" Rachel sighed, saddened. Finn nodded. "Where is he? We'll collect him."

"You sure?"

"Of course. I'm worried about him."

Finn smiled gratefully and spoke quietly to the caller for another couple of moments before hanging up. He shot Rachel an apologetic glance.

"Are you sure? We've been waiting for a night out like this for a while now, I could always call one of his other friends."

"Finn, you and I both know that Mike has no other friends. Not within state boundaries anyway. Where is he?"

" Hush."

"I know it," Rachel nodded, dialling speed dial number two on her own wafer-thin silver cell phone. "Arthur can bring us."

/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/

Thirty minutes later, Rachel and Finn found themselves wading through a deluge of bodies in the overcrowded Hush Bar. The place was upmarket, unlike Mike's usual hangouts, with plenty of chrome and strobe lighting providing a backdrop to the pulsing music blaring from the speakers. Finn held Rachel's hand tightly as he pushed a path through the crowds of revellers until finally they found themselves pushed up against the bar. After a couple of minutes of trying, Finn managed to get the bartender's attention. He had coffee-coloured skin and slanting, almond-shaped eyes that flashed like jewels under the strobe lighting.

"Dude, I got a call from someone here- a Zeke? About a friend of mine..."

"I'm Zeke," the other man replied. "Your friend tall, Asian?"

Finn and Rachel nodded in tandem. Zeke rolled his eyes.

"He's in the back room. Caused a fight, I wanted to toss him out but the guy can barely stand up straight. He's a mess."

"Yeah, we know," Rachel said in a dark undertone that only Finn heard. A pained expression crossed his face. "We can take him off your hands now."

"About time," Zeke grumbled. "Come on through."

The back room, it turned out, was the staff break room. It was a small square room with one tiny postage stamp of a window and sparse furniture consisting of a scrubbed wooden table, two chairs, a row of metal lockers and a squishy black leather sofa. And lying on that sofa, moaning pitifully, was Mike Chang. He was holding a pack of frozen peas to his face and scrunched up in a ball.

"Mike, you OK dude?" Finn called tentatively. At the sound of his name being mentioned, Mike struggled upright. A gasp escaped through Rachel's clenched teeth and she rushed to him instinctively.

"Mike, what happened?" she exclaimed, frantically examining the damage to his face, which resembled a plate of raw meat. One eye was swollen shut and a deep gash ran along the side of his nose. When he spoke, his words were impeded by a mouthful of blood.

"'S OK," he slurred. "Th'other guy looks worse."

Rachel shot Finn a despairing glance and adjusted the frozen peas. Mike groaned pitifully again.

"Mike, nobody's going to book you in this state!" Rachel sighed crossly. Mike had come to New York to make his fortune as a dancer, something the rest of his high school classmates had thought would be a sure thing. But unlike Lima, dancers were ten a penny in New York City and booking jobs had proven to be more difficult than Mike had originally thought. He had only gotten a handful in the few years he had been in the city, and when coupled with Tina breaking up with him, things had only gone from bad to worse. Rachel exchanged sorrowful glances with Finn, standing awkwardly in the doorway; they were used to Mike making a mess of himself, something which had become an increasingly regular occurrence of late, but that didn't make it any easier.

"Doesn' matter," Mike said tiredly. "Nobody wants me anyway."

"Oh, stop feeling sorry for yourself!" Rachel snapped, grabbing him to steady him as he slipped sideways. His sharp breath made her recoil slightly. "Mike, I know you've been having a hard time lately but that is no excuse for doing this to yourself. You are a talented dancer, and a very sweet young man, and I'm sorry Tina couldn't see that, I _am, _but you will meet someone else, I promise. However, if you keep this up, you'll just alienate everyone."

Mike nodded dumbly, his head lolling onto Rachel's shoulder. "You're right Rachel," he moaned. "'M ruining everything."

"No, no you're not," Rachel soothed. "We can fix this. For now, I want you to come stay with Finn and I. Enough is enough."

"No! No, 'm fine Rach, 'm fine."

"Yeah dude, you're the picture of health," Finn said sarcastically. He came to crouch next to the pair sitting on the sofa and put a comforting hand on Mike's shoulder. "Rachel's right, enough is enough. You're coming home with us."

And before Mike could argue any further, Rachel and Finn heaved him to his feet. One took each of his arms and led him from the room, grunting a little as he tripped sideways into Rachel. Between the two, they managed to get him into the backseat of the town car where he promptly fell asleep, snoring softly into Finn's shirt.

"I'm really worried about him Finn," Rachel said quietly, stroking a stray strand of hair from Mike's clammy brow. Finn glanced down at their friend with a sad expression on his normally cheerful face.

"Me too," he replied. "He's really screwed up, isn't he?"

Rachel nodded sadly and fell silent. Eventually, the car came to a stop outside the brownstone she and Finn shared and between them they managed to haul Mike's dead weight inside. Their friend woke up only once in the night, and that was to spend twenty minutes dry heaving into the toilet with Rachel massaging his back and Finn hovering in the background with a glass of water and soothing words.

/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/

"My head!" Mike Chang groaned, struggling upright on Rachel and Finn's slate grey sofa. Finn, perched at the breakfast bar in the next room, sniggered.

"That's what you get when you spend every other night pickling your liver," he informed Mike with a grin. Mike rolled his eyes and immediately regretted the action. He winced and flopped back against the fuchsia scatter cushions Rachel had spent four hours picking out in a Manhattan drapery shop.

"Dude, I'm sorry," he whispered, his throat dry and papery. "I'm always doing this, you and Rachel must be sick of me by now."

"Not sick, worried," Rachel corrected airily, emerging from the bedroom in a white bathrobe embroidered with gold stars. She bustled about the kitchen for a moment before coming to sit next to Mike on the sofa with a pint glass of water and a couple of painkillers which Mike accepted gratefully.

"What the hell happened last night?" Mike asked her after polishing off most of the water. Rachel smiled at his panicked tone. "I feel like I got hit by a bus."

"Pretty much," Finn called over the sound of the morning news bulletin on the TV. "You got in a barfight. Again. Rachel was in hysterics when we came to collect you."

"Hardly hysterics Finn," Rachel shot back playfully. She wrapped a comforting arm around Mike, who looked like death warmed up and was trembling. "But I _was_ worried. I _am_. You need to get yourself sorted out Mike, I mean it."

"You're right," the dancer replied with a yawn. "I won't bother you guys anymore, I'm going to get this sorted, I-"

His plans were interrupted by the sound of breaking glass coming from the kitchen. Mike winced at the loud noise and Rachel rolled her eyes.

"Not again," she muttered. "Finn, was that another one from the set my dads got us?"

No reply.

"Finn?"

Silence.

Perplexed, Rachel made her way across the living room with Mike ambling languidly in her wake. She stopped in her tracks in the kitchen doorway. Finn was sitting at the breakfast bar, the remains of his glass shattered at his feet, but he didn't seem to be aware of that. He was staring open-mouthed at the TV screen wearing an expression that chilled Rachel to the core. He looked as though he had just seen a ghost.

"Finn, what's wrong?" she whispered anxiously. Her voice seemed to shake him from his trance and he pointed dumbly at the perky blonde reporter on the screen.

"Will Schuester was best known for leading the McKinley High New Directions to three consecutive Showchoir National Championships from 2010 to 2012, but in recent months had suffered from a decline in mental health. He was discovered at his home by his wife Emma. Foul play is not suspected."

The words floored Rachel, and behind her she could hear Mike swear with such vehemence that Quinn Fabray would probably have thumped him over the head. Will Schuester, dead? It defied the realms of possibility. Rachel felt tears rise in her eyes and rushed to Finn's side. He took her hand and touched her engagement ring again.

"Looks like we'll be heading back to Lima sooner than we thought."

**/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/**

**A/N: Thanks to everyone who has read so far, I promise the pace will pick up once people get back to Lima. Special thanks to FireApe, Written-in-hearts, Bonesluver and MacieXOXO145 for the reviews of the last chapter. Keep up the good work, people!**


	3. Chapter 3

Kurt was sitting at his desk, fingers flying over the keys on his trusty laptop. He heaved out a tired sigh and took a large gulp from the mug of coffee his husband had made him earlier. The liquid felt good as it slid down his tender throat, and it was with great reluctance that he put the mug down and returned to his work. This latest story was taking up so much time, but Kurt knew it would be worth it in the end. It was a real coup for the paper, and for him as a journalist. Although journalism was a career path he never would have considered in high school, he found himself growing to enjoy the profession. It was difficult, and it challenged him, but challenge was what Kurt thrived on. It had taken a while to find somewhere that was the right fit for the two of them, but Concord had proven to be perfect. Kurt was content at the _Monitor_, and best of all New Hampshire was one of the few states which both recognised and performed same-sex marriages.

"Hey there Mr Anderson," said a voice behind him, making Kurt jump and almost spill his coffee all over his crisp periwinkle dress shirt. He turned with a reproachful scowl, but it slid off his face at the sight of his husband. Blaine was grinning in that maddeningly endearing way of his, and holding up a plate of mouth-watering muffins.

"Low fat?" Kurt asked suspiciously as he gingerly picked up one of the cakes and poked at the blueberries scattered through the dough. Blaine rolled his eyes.

"Of course, what do you take me for?" he teased, laughing as Kurt dived on the muffin with ill grace and devoured it before his eyes. He stroked Kurt's cheek gently as his husband closed his eyes and yawned. "Can't you just call it a night? You're working yourself into the ground."

"I know, but it'll be worth it when-"

Kurt was interrupted mid-flow by the sound of the phone ringing in the hallway. He sighed. Blaine shoved the plate of muffins into his hands and put a firm hand on his shoulder, holding him in place.

"I'll get it. You just take a break before you fall over. I don't want to have to carry you into bed again."

"Are you quite sure about that, Mr Hummel?" Kurt asked, cocking an eyebrow suggestively. Blaine grinned.

"On second thoughts... collapse away. I'll be right back."

Kurt smiled and sat back in his chair, running a hand through his perfectly-coiffed hair. Life was finally getting on track for him. He had harboured a growing adoration for Blaine for years, and when he had finally plucked up the courage to confess he found that his former mentor felt the same way. They had married right here in Concord last year, with Mercedes, Rachel and Finn serving as witnesses to the intimate ceremony, much to the latter's discomfort; Finn still couldn't get used to an open gay relationship, much to Kurt's exasperation and Blaine's amusement.

"Hello? Anderson-Hummel residence, Blaine- oh _hey_ Finn," said Blaine, out in the hallway, and Kurt had to swallow a snigger; he knew that tone. "No, no you're not interrupting. Kurt and I were just having some very hot sex and- hold on, Finn slow down. I can't understand you..."

The sudden change in Blaine's tone made Kurt sit bolt upright, the muffins left forgotten on the desk alongside his research. He padded out into the corridor and took the phone from Blaine without a word. Blaine wrapped comforting arms around him as he held the phone to his ear.

"Finn, what's wrong?" he asked worriedly. "Is it Dad? Did you hear something- wait, _what_?"

Finn explained the situation in a stilted, broken voice. Kurt could hear sobbing in the background which he attributed to Rachel, and another voice which he thought was vaguely familiar. When Finn finally finished talking, it was with a question.

"Of course I'll contact them," Kurt replied quickly, worried about how quiet and serious his normally-goofy stepbrother sounded. "See you soon Finn."

He hung up and turned to face Blaine, dumbfounded. The smaller man held him close, rubbing soothing circles into his back.

"Mr Schuester committed suicide," he whispered after a long pause. "My old teacher, from McKinley, you remember? Finn, he wants me to- to contact the others and..."

"Do you want me to do it for you?"

Kurt shook his head and Blaine nodded.

"Alright then, I'll start organising time off."

"What do you mean?"

"I'll call the hospital, see if the Chief will give me a couple of days. I'm going back to Lima with you."

Kurt smiled brokenly and dialled a number before he could stop himself, swallowing against the hard lump in his throat.

"_You've reached Mercedes Jones. Leave a message if you're hot and I'll get back to you..."_

/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/

Sam Evans was in the bath when Kurt's call came through. He had been complaining for days about the heavy tackle he had taken in the last game, and his fiancée Madelyn had finally had enough and drawn him a piping hot bath. Sam grinned as he slid further down into the soapy bubbles; this was the life. High-profile quarterback, a string of lucrative advertising contracts and a beautiful young woman on his arm. Maddy was really great. The pair had met two years ago and had been inseparable ever since. Maddy was an architect, but since she and Sam had become something of a power couple in the sporting world, she had begun dabbling in modelling as well.

"Baby?"

Sam glanced up to see Madelyn padding softly into the large, marble-tiled bathroom. She looked flawless as always. Her long blonde hair hung freely around her delicately-featured face and a girly bow was nestled within the slight curls. She was dressed in a summery baby-doll dress in pink, with a paler-coloured cardigan draped over her slim shoulders. Her face split into a warm smile as she crossed the room and planted a chaste kiss on Sam's eager lips.

"Phone for you," she said softly. "Says his name's Kurt..."

"Kurt? Kurt _Hummel_?" Sam asked incredulously. Living in New Orleans, and with such a rigorous training schedule, he didn't see his former classmates very often. He hadn't even been able to make Brittany and Artie's wedding, much to his own disappointment, and he was pretty sure it was almost six years since he had even laid eyes on Kurt Hummel. He took the phone from Maddy, mystified, and answered with a tentative "Hello?"

The first thing he realised was that Kurt seemed to be trying to contain tears, and that instantly got him worried. He sat bolt upright, splashing quite a lot of water over the edge of the tub, much to Madelyn's chagrin, and tried to calm the other man down enough for him to be coherent.

"Kurt, what's wrong? It-it's not Finn, is it?" he asked with a sudden shock of fear.

"What- oh, no! No, Finn's f-fine, it's..."

And then he was off in a rambling, disjointed explanation. Sam's mind spun and several times he had to ask Kurt to repeat details. Eventually, however, he managed to comprehend what was happening, and that comprehension crashed over him like a tsunami.

"And Finn and Rachel, well Rachel mainly, thought it would be nice if we... if New Directions, I mean, would attend the- the funeral. To show respect, and I know you're busy but-"

"I'll be there, Kurt," Sam said firmly. "See you soon."

He hung up and glanced at Madelyn, perched on the edge of the tub wearing an anxious expression. Sam reached out and squeezed her hand gently.

"Baby, I have to go home. To Lima. There's been a- my old choir teacher, he passed."

"Oh Sammy, that's awful," Madelyn gasped. "I should come with you, shouldn't I?"

"Maddy, you've got a big project lined up, I could never ask that of you. Don't sweat it, I'll only be gone for a couple of days."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive. Thanks Maddy."

She kissed him softly again before getting lightly to her feet and making her way to the door.

"Dinner'll be ready in an hour," she called as she disappeared around the door, leaving Sam alone with his thoughts.

He was going back. Back to Lima. For Mr Schue's funeral. It just didn't seem real. With a sigh, he pushed himself down so that he was completely submerged in bathwater. He wasn't sure he was up to going back; he wanted to, of course, he had really admired Mr Schue. But there were complications. Well, more specifically, one complication.

_Quinn_.

The last time he had seen her, they had fought furiously. Quinn had become someone that Sam didn't recognise, and he hated it. They had stayed together after high school, but the sweet, stubborn Quinn he had fallen for had been replaced by someone colder, more career-obsessed. Sam hadn't liked it one little bit, and he had told her as much. They screamed at each other for almost two hours, and then Quinn had taken her things and left their New Orleans apartment. He hadn't heard from her since; the last he'd heard, she was in Phoenix.

He couldn't help feeling that seeing her again would be more than a little awkward.

/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/

"Scotch on the rocks please."

"Isn't it a bit early in the day for that?" Mercedes Jones asked from behind the bar without looking at her client. The lunchtime rush had just started and she was busy brewing coffee and ferrying sandwiches and paninis to customers on their lunchbreak.

"Well, I'm celebrating," the man said sourly. Mercedes rolled her eyes. She turned with a determinedly forced grin to face him. He was sitting with his head leaned against the wood of the bar counter and to be honest Mercedes was sure he'd already had one too many. She came to stand before him and gave him a gentle nudge.

"You don't sound too happy for someone who's supposed to be celebrating," she pressed gently, careful to keep her tone kind and not nosy. The guy raised his head blearily.

"My divorce just came through," he informed her, and Mercedes' mouth fell open. Not because he was divorced- this was California, and Mercedes was plenty used to guys drowning their sorrows in the bar when their marriages failed- but because she recognised the man sitting before her.

It was Jesse St James.

"You don't recognise me, do you?" she asked him. Jesse's brow puckered as he stared blearily at her. "I was in New Directions."

It seemed to take Jesse a moment to process this, but then his expression cleared and he nodded, swaying slightly sideways as he did so.

"Mercedes, right? I remember."

Mercedes looked at him carefully and what she saw made her sad. Jesse was a shell of the confident, cocky showman she had once known. His hair was a mess and his face had a hollow, wounded look to it. She had heard the reports, of course, everyone had. He'd had a falling out with the director of his new movie, and since then he'd been finding it increasingly hard to land roles. There had been accusations of cheating, both about him and about his blonde, blue-eyed, big-breasted Playboy bunny wife and it had all ended in a nasty separation. The wife had bled him dry.

"I'm sorry to hear about your divorce," Mercedes said softly, and she meant it. Jesse had been a grade-one asshole in high school, but Mercedes was a sucker for puppy-dog eyes (it was how Kurt had always gotten around her, and Finn Hudson too at times) and the poor guy looked like he had been kicked in the stomach.

"You and me both," he said miserably. "She took _everything_. And she left this big hole where she used to be and now..."

"I get it," Mercedes told him. "It feels like a huge chunk of you is missing, right?"

"Exactly," Jesse nodded enthusiastically. Then he looked bemused. "How'd you know that?"

"My boyfriend was killed in Iraq six months ago," said Mercedes, feeling the familiar stab of pain as her thoughts flickered to Anthony. Jesse, even in his intoxicated state, had the decency to look sympathetic.

"I'm sorry," he said, and he meant it. Mercedes shot him a taught smile.

"Thanks," she said quietly. For a moment she felt that awful fear that she might burst into tears again, but then Jesse tipped dangerously sideways and she had to round the bar in rapid time to keep him upright. "OK buddy, no more scotch for you."

"But I wanna forget," Jesse whined. Mercedes ruffled his hair like she used to do when Kurt was upset.

"Believe me honey, I've been there," she told Jesse. "But you'll be thankin' me in the morning. Want me to call you a cab?"

Jesse pulled a face. "That'd be great... if, y'know, Angel hadn't thrown me out of the house."

"Don't you have anyone to stay with? A friend, or a relative maybe?"

"Nope. I've screwed them all over so many times, none of them want anything to do with me," Jesse said miserably.

"OK, first, give me any more of that self-pity thing, and I _will_ cut you. Second, I'm off in a couple of hours, and then you can have my sofa. Until then, how about you stick to water?"

"You're nice," Jesse mused dizzily. "Rachel never said you were nice..."

"Yeah, well Rachel Berry thought she was a normal, well-adjusted human being, didn't she?" Mercedes muttered, pouring Jesse a large pint glass of water. "Come on, you've nearly fallen off this stool twice already. You'll do better in a booth."

She took Jesse by the arm and steered him to a booth in the corner, out of the way of the other patrons. He leaned back against the leather-effect seat gratefully and gave her a small smile, so different from the slightly demented showface Mercedes remembered.

"Don't gulp it," she warned him, handing over the glass of water. "I don't want to get stuck mopping up your vomit on my break."

Jesse nodded gravely. "Thanks Mercedes," he said hoarsely, sipping the water as instructed.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever Pretty Boy," Mercedes muttered. "I'm on my break in a while, I'll bring you some coffee."

She hurried to get back behind the bar, and was more than relieved when fifteen minutes later the other barmaid, Alex, returned to give her a couple of minutes of a break. She hurried into the break room to retrieve her phone and then brought a pot of coffee down to the booth where Jesse was dozing fitfully.

"Drink up Pretty Boy," she told him distractedly as she flipped her cell open. To her surprise, she had a voice message from Kurt. The pair had remained close even after Kurt left McKinley to go to Dalton, but Kurt knew she worked most days of the week in the bar, and usually saved his phonecalls for the evening or weekend afternoons. The last time he'd called her at work, it was to tell her that he and Blaine were getting married. Curious, she started to listen to her boy's message.

"_Mercedes, please pick up. I've got bad news..."_

The message lasted a couple of minutes in total, and when it was finished Mercedes dropped the phone as though it had burned her. She could feel her breathing quicken and closed her eyes in an attempt to regain control.

"What's wrong?" Jesse asked over the rim of his coffee cup. He looked more together now, and his brow was knitted with genuine concern. Mercedes felt a sudden burst of rashness; she didn't want to face the long flight back to Ohio alone. She levelled her gaze on Jesse's, who looked rather wary.

"How would you feel about a bit of a trip?"

/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/

Quinn Fabray stood impatiently at the luggage carousel in Port Columbus International Airport. There had been some sort of mix-up with the baggage and she had been left standing here for an hour waiting for her suitcase. She was drained; she had been flying for over three hours, and she had a full day in court behind her before that. She could feel the tension knotting at the back of her neck and her feet were aching. With a furtive glance around, she bent down and quickly unhooked her black patent stilettos, leaving her standing in sheer black stockings and a slate-grey pencil dress.

"Finally," she muttered darkly as she spotted her neat Louis Vuitton case making its way up the carousel. She pushed her way to the front of the crowd and lifted it down before making her way towards the exit.

It had been a long time since she had been in Ohio; she hadn't been home since before she and Sam broke up. Coming from the subtropical, arid heat of Phoenix, it was almost a relief to see the overcast sky and drizzly rain outside. A smile flitted across her face. She had always loved the smell of rain.

Her phone started to vibrate in her jacket pocket and she picked up immediately, making her way towards the exit lost in talk of witnesses and key evidence with the firm's in-house private investigator and her closest companion, Alfie Sykes. Alfie was one of the few people who had welcomed her when she arrived in Phoenix, and he had even offered her his spare room until she got settled. Quinn had accepted gratefully, but moved out swiftly when Alfie's boyfriend moved in.

After a hurried conversation, she hung up, still lost in thoughts of the case. So much so that it took her several moments to realise that somebody was calling her name.

"Quinn? Quinn Fabray, is that you?"

She turned and found herself face-to-face with a very changed Tina Cohen-Chang. The other woman had spent her high school years in gothic garb with dodgy blue hair extensions, but the figure before Quinn was that of a mature young woman. Tina's hair had been cropped short into a demure bob and she wore high-waisted pinstriped pants with a pussy-bow blouse. Her smile, however, was the same innocent beam as it had been in high school as she threw her arms around Quinn in a surprise hug.

"Long time no see," she said. "You look great."

"You too," Quinn smiled. "Where are you based now?"

"I'm in Oregon actually, in Portland."

"And how do you like being a paramedic?" Quinn asked. If possible, Tina's grin grew even wider. Quinn laughed. "That good, huh?"

"It has its low points, obviously, but that feeling you get when you save a life... you can't beat it, you know? I saw you on TV a while ago, how's the big bad world of law?"

"Stressful," Quinn admitted, and the two women shared a laugh as they emerged into the rainy night. "I hired a car for the few days I'm in Ohio, you want a ride?"

"That'd be great," agreed Tina. "Thanks Quinn."

The two women made their way towards the car rental station, shivering slightly as the rain drenched them to the skin. They chatted about life and reminisced about their time at McKinley High, neither of them fully able to come to terms with the fact that their curly-haired choir teacher was gone. He had been such a large part of their lives in high school, and it was impossible to think that tomorrow they would be attending his funeral.

Neither woman mentioned the elephant in the car; both would be coming face-to-face with their exes tomorrow too.

**/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/**

**A/N: Thanks as usual to everyone who's reading. Special thank to Ms Yu, Macie, Always-be-dreaming-of-you, Readingtoomuch, Clo (incredibly detailed review, and your English was perfect by the way!) and Bonesluver for reviewing.**

**Next chapter will be the funeral, and everyone will finally come back together!**


	4. Chapter 4

Rachel, Finn, Mike, Kurt and Blaine rode together in Kurt's Navigator to the church. All five were dressed in black to mark the occasion, although Kurt had insisted on adding a blood-red tie and matching pocket square to his suit, claiming that 'Mr Schue always told me to be myself, and I'm sure he would stand by that even at his own funeral'. The drive to the church was a subdued affair; the curious atmosphere of death hung over the car's occupants like a heavy cloak. The radio had burst into life when they first clambered in outside the Hummel-Hudson household, where they had all spent the night squashed into the spare bedroom and on the sofas, but Blaine had tactfully reached out and switched it off. The rest of the ride passed in tense silence as each person in the car contemplated what lay ahead. Even Blaine, who had only met Will Schuester in passing, knew how important he had been in the others' lives.

When they arrived outside St. Charles' Catholic Church, they were dumbfounded. The church yard was a veritable sea of people.

"Wow," Blaine whispered softly, hopping down from the front seat to open the door for Rachel. "I guess he was more popular than you guys let on."

"He was awesome," Finn agreed in a tight voice. Rachel took him gently by the arm and steered him in the gate, scanning the crowd for any sign of a familiar face. She recognised a couple of figures; their old principal, Figgins, was by the church door talking to a couple of vaguely recognisable members of the McKinley High faculty, and she thought she caught a glimpse of Mr Schuester's former wife by the hydrangeas. Then, from somewhere to her left, she heard a voice.

"Hudson!"

The small cluster of people whipped around to find Noah Puckerman striding towards them with Santana by his side. Brittany was just behind them, pushing Artie in his chair. Like the others, they were all dressed in black and wearing suitably sombre expressions, although their faces lit up as they came closer.

"Long time no see, man," Puck grinned broadly.

"Too long," agreed Finn, eagerly fist-bumping his one-time best friend, whose head was now covered in an inky fuzz of dark hair. "What happened to the Mohawk?"

"I grew up, that's what happened," Puck chuckled. He grunted slightly as Rachel hurtled around Finn to hug him tightly. "Nice to see you too, Berry. It is still Berry, right? You two didn't, like, elope without telling anybody?"

"Not yet," Rachel smiled shyly, holding up her ring finger. Brittany and Blaine gasped delightedly, Santana even cracked a genuine smile, Artie clapped his hands and Kurt smacked Finn in the upper arm.

"How could you not tell me? Wait, how did I not _notice_?" he hissed, but he was grinning from ear to ear and promptly dived into the crowd surrounding Rachel and cooing appreciatively. Puck punched Finn's arm and then shook his hand warmly.

"Congrats man," he beamed. "I'm really happy for you."

"Thanks."

"What's going on over here, then?"

Finn turned around and without warning found his arms full of Quinn. The pretty blonde embraced both him and Puck simultaneously before stepping back to let Tina do the same.

"Whoa, Tina, what the hell?" Puck exclaimed, holding her at arm's length to get a good look at his former classmate. "Why in the name of Chuck Norris did you hide a figure like that under those frumpy Goth clothes in high school? You're hot!"

Tina rolled her eyes at Quinn. "Some things never change," the blonde muttered, but it was with a fond expression. "So what's going on over there?"

"Berry's just revelling in being the centre of attention," Puck said, winking at Quinn. "Some things never change, I guess."

"We- uh, Rach and I got engaged," Finn told the two women sheepishly, his gaze rooted on the gravel. Both beamed at him and rushed at him at once in congratulations.

"Honestly, first Kurt and Blaine get married without telling the rest of us, now you two as well?" Quinn grumbled, but a twitch of her lips betrayed her true emotions. "I'm glad you're happy Finn. Really, I am."

She grabbed Tina by the arm and hurried to join the rest of the group. Tina froze momentarily as she caught Mike's eye where he was standing, in animated conversation with Santana and Brittany. He too froze, the easy grin which had flitted onto his face disappearing in an instant.

"H-hi," Tina said hesitantly. Mike opened his mouth to speak, but then shook his head and seemed to think better of it. "How's New York?"

"I'm sorry Tee," Mike replied shakily. "I don't think I can do this. Not yet. Excuse me."

And before she could say another word, he had brushed past her to go talk to Puck. Tina put her fingers to the patch of skin Mike had touched off as he passed her, before Kurt latched onto her with a squeal and dragged her into the conversation.

"You OK?" Finn asked in a low voice as Mike joined himself and Puck, closely followed by Artie. Mike nodded weakly.

"Yeah, yeah I guess so," he sighed. "It's just hard, seeing her again."

"You'll find someone else," Artie said quietly, looking up at the man who he had once considered a rival for Tina's affections. "Just look at me. When Tina broke it off, I thought I was destined for a life of playing Halo in my bedroom with only a Princess Leia poster for company. But now I've got Britt, and I've never been happier. A break-up isn't the end of the world Mike, it just feels like it for a while."

"I second that."

"Sam!" Finn exclaimed happily, catching sight of the bleached-blonde football player standing a couple of feet away. "Good to see you man, we didn't think you'd make it."

"Hey, I told Kurt I'd be here and I meant it. I wouldn't miss saying goodbye to Mr Schue for anything. The dude was one hell of a teacher," Sam shrugged.

"Not recently, he wasn't," Puck mumbled darkly. Finn, Sam, Artie and Mike stared at him.

"What do you mean?" Artie asked, pushing his glasses up his nose and leaning slightly closer with interest. Even the conversation about the engagement had been silenced as everyone clustered around Puck to hear more. He sighed and glanced around edgily, looking at Santana for backup. She nodded imperceptibly and ran a hand through her long black hair.

"Look, we didn't know how to tell you guys," she said imploringly. "Everyone had just found out about him kicking the bucket and... well..."

"Tell us what, Santana?" Quinn asked, a slight tremor in her voice. Santana glanced around to make sure they weren't being overheard and then continued.

"Hardly anyone knows this," she said in a hollow voice. "We only do because I'm working in the school... Will had been acting weird for almost a year before he died. He and Emma- Miss Pillsbury, I mean- they got married, and they were really happy. But then he started acting off. He was jumpy, forgetful and then it got worse. He started flying off the handle for no reason, yelling at the kids for the littlest things. He was paranoid, he wasn't sleeping... eventually, about two months ago, Sylvester had to ask him to leave."

"She _fired_ him?" Rachel asked incredulously. "How could she? Mr Schuester was the best thing about McKinley."

"You didn't see him this past year," Santana said with a slight shiver. Puck squeezed her shoulders. "He totally lost it. Seeing things, mood swings, you name it. The guy was convinced someone was out to get him, he ended up the laughing stock of McKinley. It was really hard on Emma, trying to deal with him. Police won't tell us anything, but the general opinion is that he snapped and killed himself."

Sam gave a low whistle and a shiver seemed to ripple through the cluster of former classmates.

"I can't believe Mr Schue ended up like that," Artie said softly.

"Yeah," Brittany whispered. "He was like the strongest person I knew at school, except for that Lauren girl and she was a wrestler."

"It's just... unbelievable," Kurt sighed, resting his head against Blaine's shoulder.

"No, you know what's unbelievable?" a new voice said behind them. "That y'all are gossipin' about Mr Schue at his _funeral. _What the heck is wrong with you? Haven't you got any respect for the dead?"

"Mercedes," Kurt said with a sad smile, rushing to embrace his best friend, who was standing with arms akimbo and scowling. "Sorry, we just... it was a lot to take in."

"Yeah, I'm sorry too," the curvy woman said immediately. "These things just get to me, I guess. The service is about to start, y'all should come inside if you want to sit."

Kurt nodded and looped one hand through Mercedes' arm and the other through Blaine's. The African-American woman led the rest of the group into the church porch. They maintained a subdued silence until Mercedes slid into an almost-empty pew alongside-

"Rach, am I seeing things or is that Jesse St James?" Finn whispered hoarsely, staring at the figure. Mercedes swivelled around to face him.

"Long story White Boy," she informed him. "I'll explain later. It's starting."

/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/

An hour or so later, the group stepped out into the church yard. The service had been a subdued affair, although Miss Pillsbury's sobbing and Mr Schuester's dad's eulogy had provided a moving reprieve. It was a huge funeral; present and former pupil's had turned out to pay their respects, as well as faculty members past and present, including a visibly distraught Holly Holiday and Sue Sylvester, who wore an expression close to sadness and a black tracksuit for the occasion. The former classmates huddled together in the gravelled yard, reminiscing and catching up on the parts of each others' lives they had missed out on.

"So you're engaged now, huh?" Puck asked Sam. The guys had gravitated together, while the women stood a couple of feet away. Jesse stood awkwardly between the two groups until Blaine, feeling sorry for him, made his way over to introduce himself. It was fitting, in a way; both were outsiders to New Directions' grief.

"Yes sir," Sam said proudly, accepting the pat on the back Mike offered him. "You wanna see a picture?"

He reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and withdrew his wallet. Inside was a colour snapshot of him and Madelyn on a vacation to Hawaii a couple of months ago. He grinned and showed it to the others. Puck whistled appreciatively. The others just stared.

"Dude," Finn said. "She looks l-" he was cut off by a sharp elbow and a warning look from his stepbrother. "She's really pretty man. You did good."

"Thanks," Sam grinned. "She's a great girl, you know?"

"Please tell me you saw that," Finn said in an undertone to Kurt, under the pretence of allowing the smaller man to remove a piece of lint from his collar. "Dude, come on, she's a carbon copy of-"

"Quinn. Yes Finn, although I have no romantic interest in the fairer sex I am not blind to their physical attributes you know. I'm perfectly aware that Sam's new fiancée bears a startling resemblance to your former high school sweetheart. It's sad, if you ask me."

The two were spared further speculation by a flurry of excitement from the girls, who were staring at a figure near the church gate.

"Matt!" Mike exclaimed, following the girls' gaze to see his one-tome best friend waving hesitantly at him with a sheepish grin. He hurried to greet him properly, closely followed by both Brittany and Santana. "What're you doing here?"

"I read about the funeral in the obits and figured I'd come," Matt shrugged. "I missed most of the service though. I was supposed to come down yesterday, but I was barely out the door at home when Leah called me back. She had to go to work and Ruby wasn't feeling great, so I had to stay with her."

"How old's she now?"

"Six, and Colby's two and a half."

"Who knew our very own Silent Bob would be the first to settle down?" Santana teased playfully. "It's good to see you Rutherford, how long are you in town for?"

"About a week, figured I'd do some visiting while I'm here."

"Great. I'd offer you a bed, but Britt and Artie have my spare room for the week."

"No worries San, he can stay with me. Mom and Dad are visiting Mom's aunt in Utah," Mike explained, before turning back to the others. "Anybody else need somewhere to crash?"

"Mercedes and Tina are staying at mine," Quinn said. "My mom already offered."

"I'm crashing at Puck's," Sam said, nodding gratefully to his former teammate.

"It's a bit crowded at home with all of us, on top of Mom, Burt and the twins, so Rach and I are spending the week at her dads' place."

"They really only use it as a holiday home now that they've got that condo in Boca," Rachel explained. "So we're going to stay there and Kurt and Blaine will stay at the Hummel-Hudson house."

"Jesse, you need somewhere to crash?" Mike asked generously. He didn't particularly like the curly-haired man- he had screwed their glee club over big time in high school, and broke Rachel's heart to boot- but he was generally too nice for his own good and he hated to see anybody stuck.

"A-are you sure?" Jesse asked uncertainly. Mike nodded good-naturedly.

"Sure, the place is plenty big for the three of us."

"He's right man, his parents' house is like a mansion," enthused Matt. "There's even a Jacuzzi."

"Well I can't turn down an offer like that," Jesse grinned gratefully. "Thanks man."

"Now that that's sorted," Rachel piped up shrilly. "I'd like to present an idea to the group."

"Berry, you sound like you're runnin' for office," Puck teased. "Just spit it out."

The petite brunette tossed her hair and scowled at Puck before turning her attention back to the rest of the group. "As the former co-captain of New Directions, I would like to propose a reunion of sorts. We're all in Lima together for the first time in longer than I care to remember, and I think it would be a fitting tribute to the late Mr Schuester if we-"

"Honestly, I'll go if it stops you talking," Santana interjected.

"Great idea Rachel," Mercedes said quickly, because she didn't like the look the diminutive diva was shooting at the svelte cheerleading coach.

"Yeah, how about tomorrow evening?" Sam suggested, and was greeted by a flurry of nods of agreement. "But where?"

Santana and Blaine rolled their eyes in unison and, in perfect harmony, chorused: "Where else? BreadstiX!"

Desperate to regain control of the situation, Rachel proclaimed in a loud, ringing voice, "Perfect. I'll see you all in BreadstiX at seven thirty tomorrow evening. In lieu of thanking me for my brilliant idea, please bring photos, video footage or other mementos of our time in glee club with Mr Schuester."

/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/

Later that night, Finn lay in bed next to Rachel, who was nestled in the crook of his elbow.

"Rach," he whispered into the darkness. "Is it weird that we're sleeping together in your parents' house without permission?"

"Finn, we're engaged, not sixteen years old."

"Sorry, I guess I'm just a little bit nervous about telling them when we see them next."

"Understandable. Due to the homophobic attitudes of small towns such as Lima, both of my daddys obtained black belts in judo, karate and mixed martial arts before moving here."

"Really?" Finn gulped, thinking that he might have to invest in some chain mail before venturing down to the Berrys' Boca condo. Rachel giggled and propped herself up on one elbow to face him.

"Relax Finn. You make me happier than even obtaining the coveted role of Maria did. Once I tell my daddys that, they're bound to love you."

"Thanks Rach," he sighed, relieved. He pressed a kiss to her forehead. "I love you."

"I love you too Finn. Goodnight."

The couple were just drifting off to sleep when, downstairs, the phone began to ring. Finn groaned and put the pillow over his head. Rachel rolled her eyes and sat up, jamming her feet into her slippers before padding downstairs to answer the phone.

_Who on earth is calling at this hour?_ she thought grumpily. It had been a long day; after the funeral service, she and Finn had headed back to the Hummel-Hudson house to tell Finn's mom and Burt the big news. There had been tears (Carole, Kurt, Rachel), manly hugs (Burt and Finn), gushing colour scheme plans (Kurt and Rachel) and terrified escaping (Blaine and Finn). By the time she and Finn had reached the Berry house, she was travel weary and just looking forward to a good night's sleep.

"Whoever you are, you should know that you are interrupting the R.E.M cycle of a Tony-nominated actress. What is your reason for calling this number?"

Only heavy breathing met her question.

"Hello? Noah, if this is some idiotic joke of yours, it's not funny."

More breathing.

"Hello? Hello?"

"_Schuester was right_."

/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/

A couple of blocks away, the caller hung up their phone and smiled. They got to their feet and stood a couple of inches from the notice board on their bedroom wall. A haphazard series of photographs were pinned to it, each depicting various former members of New Directions. The one at the centre of the board featured two people, one of whom the caller had scribbled out with a blood-red Sharpie.

They stood back a little to observe their work. Will Schuester had already fallen, and the rest of the pawns were finally in place.

It had begun.

**/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/**

**A/N: And now the suspense aspect comes into play. Thanks as always to those of you who are sticking with Old Wounds, especially the following who have reviewed since the last update: Readingtoomuch, Fallen Upon, Clo (again, insanely detailed review and much love for that!), MacieXOXO145 and Bonesluver. Keep up the good work!**

**I'd love to hear some early speculation on the identity of our phantom caller, as well as who you think (or hope, for the particularly vindictive among you) will be the next face to be scribbled out on that notice board.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	5. Chapter 5

Rachel didn't sleep all night, racked with anxiety after the chilling phone call she had received. She had stood by the phone in the downstairs passage for almost five minutes before coming to her senses and scampering back upstairs to wake Finn. Her fiancée, however, was more worried about the valuable sleep time they were losing than the phantom caller whose words had sent chills down Rachel's spine.

"For the last time Rach," he said the next morning through a mouthful of cereal. "It was probably just some idiot pulling a stupid prank. Don't let it get to you."

"But what if it wasn't?" she persisted, pacing the kitchen floor anxiously. "Think about it Finn. They said '_Schuester was right'_, that means they heard what we were talking about at the funeral. If it's true, it means Mr Schue wasn't paranoid- somebody _was_ out to get him."

"OK," Finn said reasonably. "Let's just say it was real. Did you recognise the voice?"

Rachel shook her head. "They were using some sort of voice changer. I couldn't even tell if they were male or female, and I'm scared. I mean, why would they go to the trouble of doing something like that if they weren't serious?"

Finn reached out to stop her from pacing, his large hand wrapping around her wrist as he pulled her to him. Rachel tried to pull away, but Finn held firm and stroked her hair comfortingly.

"Rach, I'm sorry I didn't take you seriously last night. If it makes you feel any better, we'll report this to the police. We can go right now if you want."

"There's no point Finn, they'll just palm it off as a prank like you did. Until something else happens-"

"_If_ something else happens Rach. If. The best thing you can do is put it to the back of your mind. Maybe it was a one-off."

"Maybe," Rachel said doubtfully. "But I don't think so."

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," said Finn. He planted a quick kiss on Rachel's left cheek. "Just try to forget about it. Mom wants us to go to them for lunch today, try to focus on that instead."

Rachel nodded weakly.

"I'm going to take a shower," she murmured, pulling out of Finn's comforting embrace.

"Can I join you?"

The first genuine smile since the phone call flitted across Rachel's face as Finn chased her up the stairs. Five minutes later, the power shower was in full flow. The jet of water cascading down seemed to wash away all of Rachel's inhibitions, and for a few moments she managed to forget about her worries.

/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/

Matt Rutherford groaned as he rolled lethargically from the bed in the Changs' guest room. His head was pounding; last night had not been a good idea. After Mike helped him and Jesse to move the few belongings they had brought with them into the bedrooms which would be theirs for the week, the three of them had decided to hit one of the local bars to relax; the funeral had everyone on edge. Unfortunately for him, Matt had forgotten what a night out with Mike Chang entailed. The evening had turned into a heavy drinking session, in which Mike and Matt reminisced loudly about their days in middle and high school before Matt's move to Texas and Jesse attempted to keep up with the conversation while drinking his body weight in alcohol. Matt could vaguely recall him passing out on top of the bouncer after the last round of vodka shots.

Padding downstairs while attempting not to move his head, Matt found Mike pottering around the large kitchen, moving to the beat of some R&B tune on the radio. He was even _whistling_, for crying out loud.

"Dude," Matt groaned. "How are you so chirpy at this hour?"

"Matthew my friend, it's almost one. And in answer to your question: practice."

Matt chuckled and instantly regretted the action. "Where's St Douche?"

"OK, seriously stop calling him that," Mike chastised, struggling to smother a snort. "What are you, fourteen? I thought you were supposed to be the mature one. Jesse's OK. And he's in the bathroom puking his guts up."

"Ugh, cos I needed _that _image."

"You asked," Mike shrugged with a maddening grin. Matt shuddered as Jesse staggered into the kitchen. He looked like death warmed up, with large shadows blooming beneath his eyes and a sickly sheen to his sallow skin. Matt groaned sympathetically.

"Dude, you look like I feel."

Jesse grimaced. "Not so loud," he said hoarsely, placing a trembling hand to his temples. "How much did I _drink_?"

"I was too busy trying to stop you hitting on everything with two breasts to keep track," Mike chuckled. "Breakfast?"

Jesse blanched. "I doubt I can keep down anything more than water. Do you mind if I step outside for a few minutes? I think I need some air."

"Sure thing, there's a bench on the veranda."

"I'll be out in a couple of minutes," Matt told Jesse. "Gotta find some Aspirin or something first."

"Alright then," Jesse said. He shambled out through the hall and the front door and was just about to settle himself on the neat pine bench when a package on the front steps caught his eye. Wincing slightly in the bright midday sunlight, he bent down and picked it up. To his great surprise, the name written on the front of the plain brown paper was not that of Mike Chang or any of the Chang family, but his own. He smirked to himself; although his showbiz career had never exactly been the glowing success he had envisioned at eighteen when he packed his bags and headed for California, he still had a select group of dedicated fans who popped up in the most unexpected places. Somebody in Lima must have spotted him last night and wanted to show their love for his work. A warm glow filled him as he quickly opened the neatly wrapped gift. Out fell a small, silver photo frame.

"What's that?" said a voice behind him, making him jump. It was just Matt, who had sloped out onto the veranda with a glass of water and a pained expression on his face. Jesse held the frame up wordlessly for him to see. "Weird gift."

"I know, right," Jesse mumbled, staring mystified at the little frame glinting in the morning sun. In spite of the warm weather, he shivered. Something didn't feel right.

/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/

"I missed you San," Brittany said happily as the former Cheerios sat with Artie at Santana's small dining table, sipping coffee. "It's good to see you again."

"You too Britt, and you Artie. It's been way too long. I wish Carmen was here too, but I sent her on a sleepover to her cousins for the next few days. I really don't think I could have dealt with all this funeral stuff with her bouncing off the walls."

"I'm sure we'll be seeing more of her in the future," said Artie with a wry smile at Brittany which the blonde returned. She reached across and squeezed her husband's hand under the table. She giggled maddeningly.

"What do you mean?" Santana asked curiously. Artie merely pushed his glasses further up his nose knowingly. "Spill, Abrams, it may be a while since high school but I still know how to give a killer slushie facial."

"Alright, alright," Artie laughed, holding his hands up in defeat. Brittany jiggled her chair a little closer to him and beamed. "The company's opening a new branch here in Lima. They've asked me to be branch manager."

"You mean...?" Santana asked slowly. Artie and Brittany nodded in unison. "But Britt, your dance school..."

"The demand's too big anyway, so we're opening one here," Brittany explained. "And Finn told us yesterday that Mike's really sad in New York, so I'm going to ask him to come teach with me tonight."

"So you two are really... you're really coming home?" Santana asked, hardly daring to hope. Her two former classmates grinned widely as she emitted a shriek and dashed around the table to engulf Brittany in a warm embrace. "I... this is amazing! Mike'll be over the moon, this is the break he's been waiting for and I... I can't believe you're coming home Britt!" she gushed, before she remembered herself and shot Artie a deathly look. "But if you tell anyone I showed a hint of a soul, I'll-"

"I know, I know, you'll give me a slushie facial," Artie finished for her with a roguish grin. Santana poked her tongue out at him but then allowed a genuine smile to flit across her features.

"Maybe not," she said contentedly over Brittany's shoulder. "You did just give me my best friend back."

Before they could continue their conversation, the buzzer sounded. Santana peeled herself away from Brittany, still beaming, and answered.

"Yeah?"

"Uh... I've got a package here for a... Santana Lopez?" said a bored voice through the speaker.

"Come on up."

Santana pulled open the door to face a freckle-faced teenage boy who was holding a large cardboard box and a clipboard, which he handed to Santana to sign.

"Hey," she said, accepting the package. "I don't think I ordered anything online."

"Nah, it's a gift package," the boy explained. "Bye now."

"Bye," Santana said, bemused. She returned to the kitchen with the box and plonked it down on the table. "Weird."

"What's up?" Artie asked.

"I just got a 'gift package', only there's no note."

"What's inside?" Brittany asked eagerly. Santana shrugged and opened the box. Her heart leaped when she saw the familiar BreadstiX logo on the paper bag inside.

"Somebody seriously loves me," she whispered, half-wondering if Puck had finally stopped acting like a man-child and chasing down everything with a pulse and a pair of boobs. However, her delight soon turned to disgust as she ripped back the bag. "What the hell?"

The bag was full of breadsticks, but they were all charred and blackened. Santana pushed the box away, her stomach plummeting as though she had missed a step on the stairs.

"Must be a faulty batch," Artie said helpfully, holding up one flaky black breadstick with interest. "You should complain."

"Damn straight," Santana scowled. "They burned their 'sticks. That's like frickin' sacrilege!"

"You can tell the manager this evening," Artie said, attempting to calm her down. There was a vein pulsing in the Latina's neck that reminded him forcibly of Sue Sylvester on one of her patented rampages of the halls of McKinley. Once she had even tried to shoot Brittany out of a cannon, and though Artie knew Santana wouldn't take it that far, he knew how strongly the former cheerleader felt when it came to BreadstiX.

"Damn straight," Santana mumbled again, sulking. "They better give me a whole year's supply to make up for this. Tonight can't come fast enough."

/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/

Blaine woke to find the space next to him empty. He smiled softly as he pulled himself upright. Kurt was definitely the morning person in this relationship. He breathed in the crisp, vanilla scent which seemed to be imbued in the Hummel-Hudsons' guest bedroom as he jammed an oversized, threadbare Warblers sweater over his dark curls. He knew it was stupid, holding onto such a cheesy high school memento, but Blaine considered himself to be something of a romantic and the Warblers had brought him and Kurt together. He liked to hold onto that in whatever way he could.

Padding downstairs he found his stomach growling as the delicious scent of bacon filled his nostrils. He grinned and quickened his pace. Sure enough, when he poked his head around the kitchen door he saw Kurt standing with his back to him, humming merrily under his breath as he watched the bacon sizzling on the pan. A wry smile crossed Blaine's face as he recognised the song Kurt was humming as Teenage Dream, the song he himself had sung the first time they met. He padded silently across the cool tiles and wrapped his arms around Kurt from behind.

"Blaine!" Kurt gasped, tensing beneath his grasp. "Are you trying to kill me?"

"Nope," he replied cheerfully. "Just distracting you so I can nab some bacon."

With a wink he leaned over Kurt's shoulder and nabbed a piece of perfectly-cooked bacon. The other man attempted to scowl, his facade betrayed by a twitch of his lips as he watched Blaine eat with amusement. Blaine tried to grab another sliver of bacon, but Kurt rapped him neatly on the knuckles with his slotted spoon and, before he could cry out, planted a kiss on his pursed lips. Blaine grinned, surprised, and eagerly leaned in for more.

"Gross!"

The pair sprang apart guiltily to find themselves being scrutinised by Kurt's 9 year-old twin half-sisters, Andrea and Alison, both of whom were wearing expressions of distinct disgust. The girls were identical; both had inherited Kurt's pale complexion and vivid green eyes, as well as Finn's rather endearing clumsiness. Kurt had coerced them into letting him braid their long brown hair last night, so now both girls had soft waves hanging down their backs and had their button noses scrunched up identically.

"Finn said if you two did that in public again he'd post a video of you on YouTube," Andrea said gravely to her half-brother. "Something about a shirt like Daddy's and something called Mellencamp."

"Huh?" Blaine asked, mystified, as Kurt turned deathly pale.

"Damn Rachel for teaching him how to use a computer," his husband muttered. He smiled broadly at the twins and bent down so that he was at their eye-level. "This never leaves the room, and I'll give you both a makeover. Deal?"

The twins exchanged brief glances before exclaiming in unison, "Deal."

Kurt breathed a sigh of relief and turned back to serving up breakfast. The twins dropped Blaine cheeky winks and high-fived each other before dashing back up to their bedroom. Blaine chuckled in bemusement and squeezed Kurt's shoulder playfully.

"You know you just got played by a couple of nine-year-olds, right?"

"Nine-year-olds as precocious as I was at that age," Kurt corrected him absent-mindedly. "Albeit without my fashion sense- it's the Finn influence."

Their playful banter was interrupted by the sound of a car door slamming.

"I think that's the mail," Kurt tossed over his shoulder. "Would you mind getting it? I'm almost ready to serve up here."

"No problem."

Blaine made his way out the front door and out to the Hummel-Hudsons' neat mailbox, which had been erected the summer before Finn and Kurt departed for college. The event in question had resulted in a rather hilarious home video which Carole had shown to Blaine on his first visit to the Hummel-Hudson house as Kurt's official 'partner'. The slightly grainy footage showed Finn attempting to elbow Kurt, who was holding a tin of pink paint and glitter, out of the way, and subsequently hammering a nail into Burt's thumb rather than the wooden post, while Carole gasped with mirth from behind the shaking camera. Blaine had found it to be a suitably instructive introduction to his future extended family.

Sure enough, Kurt's keen hearing was right; the mail had arrived. Blaine opened the mailbox and withdrew a couple of bills, a glossy flyer for Emerald Dreams and, to his great surprise, a small package wrapped in brown paper bearing his own name. For a moment he wondered if it was one of Kurt's little gifts- he was forever attempting to coerce Blaine into wearing new colours or styling his hair slightly differently- but he didn't recognise the handwriting. Confused, he ripped open the wrappings and out fell a small silver photo frame. Blaine rifled through the torn wrappings, but there was no note. Mystified, he returned inside and, over breakfast, discussed the mysterious package. Kurt reckoned it was probably one of his former glee club members- Brittany was always sending random packages across the country, and it could be a heavily-veiled piece of innuendo from either Puck or Santana. Blaine shrugged and pocketed it; he could find out at BreadstiX later.

/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/

By eight o'clock almost the entire group had gathered in BreadstiX. Rachel, as usual, had been overly prepare for the occasion, and had joined together two tables on which her former classmates could lay their photos of their time in glee club with Mr Schue, while Finn had commandeered the TV behind the counter which was usually used for showing sports so that various videos of New Directions could be shown in tribute to their former teacher and mentor. The couple had decided not to mention the call Rachel had received the previous night; there had been no follow-up, and everybody was on edge enough already following the revelations at the funeral.

Matt had disappeared in the direction of the bathrooms, as he was expecting a phonecall from Leah, his wife, and wanted some privacy. Most of the rest of the group were clustered around the homage to Mr Schuester, tearfully smiling and pointing out events they had forgotten about, while Santana argued furiously with the manager about the package she had received that morning. The tight-faced, middle-aged woman was denying allowing any such package to leave the restaurant.

"Hey Kurt, where's Blaine?" Mike asked as he shared a laugh with the thinner boy at the sight of the two of them dressed in their theatricality costumes. Kurt wore a tribute to Lady Gaga, while Mike looked ridiculous in leathers and white makeup with cat whiskers. Kurt shook with laughter as he regarded the picture fondly.

"Oh, Dad cornered him to talk about 'his intentions'," he explained with an affected little shudder. "Honestly, anyone would think he was out to steal my virtue, I don't think the fact that we're married has sunk in yet. He'll be along later, and he said he'd give Jesse a ride here."

"Awesome," Mike beamed. "The dude's wall-falling, so I told him to take a nap and come along later."

The pair glanced across the room at the sound of a riled "Fine!"

Santana was wearing an expression like thunder and stormed in the direction of the bathrooms without a backward glance at the rest of the shocked group.

"Uh... I guess they wouldn't give her more breadsticks," Artie said lamely. Brittany moved to follow her friend, but Artie grabbed her wrist. "Give her a minute to calm down," he advised his wife. "Knowing Santana, she could take someone's head off."

"I guess so," Brittany agreed, biting her plump lower lip anxiously. Then her expression cleared and she hurried over to join Mike and Kurt. "Hey Mike, I need to ask you something. It's really important-"

She broke off suddenly as the restaurant was engulfed in darkness. There was a chorus of frightened murmuring and the staff began to shout instructions to each other in the dim light.

"We probably blew a fuse," the tight-faced manager was informing her employees. "Jaycee, try the generator by the ladies' room."

There were footsteps, presumably as the waitress, Jaycee, shuffled towards the back passageway leading to the bathrooms. Hushed murmurings broke out as the customers waited for the problem to be resolved. Then a bloodcurdling shriek split the air.

"Somebody call 911!" came the terrified voice of the waitress, Jaycee. "There's a body in here!"

As the lights came back up and Kurt began to dial the emergency services, there was a stampede for the bathroom passageway. The former New Directions members were to the fore, and it was Puck who managed to elbow his way into the ladies' room. He stopped in his tracks, causing both Sam and Finn to bump into him, and let out a noise like a puppy whose paw has been stamped on.

Rachel's scream broke the spell holding the rest of the group in shock.

The waitress, Jaycee, was holding a large, heavy pipe in a threatening way, facing a pair of figures crouched in one of the bathroom stalls. Behind the figures, Puck realised with crippling agony, was Santana Lopez, and she was dead. There was a gaping wound in her scalp, and an expression of intense horror was frozen in place on her face. To his revulsion, her skirt had been hitched up and her underwear removed.

"Get the hell away from her, you bastards!" Puck howled, fighting against the strong hold of Finn and Sam as Brittany attempted to do the same in Mike and Mercedes' grasp. "Don't-touch-her-again!"

The figures turned as one, and there was blood on their hands. Matching expressions of shock and confusion washed across their faces and at their feet was a photograph. Glancing over Puck's shoulder, Sam could make out the image of Santana in her Rocky Horror outfit. Her face had been scribbled out in red Sharpie. Bile rose in his throat as he stared at the two figures staring fearfully back at them, cornered.

It was Jesse and Blaine.

**/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/**

**Dun-dun-dun! Cliffie much?**

**Sorry Santana fans, I really didn't want to kill her off but somebody had to go first. I'd appreciate if you didn't come searching for me with torches and pitchforks; believe me, I feel bad enough already.**

**As usual, thanks to the following wonderful readers who have reviewed since my last update: Readingtoomuch, FireApe, swimgirl822, Murgy31, Amy, Lizardgirl7, Gleeksupport, Jade Iceshard BloodRayne, Rocketship2mars, Bonesluver, sdmwd1115, Kara, Always-be-dreaming-of-you and lydiabones. Don't stop reviewin' guys!**

**Thanks for reading, please drop me a line to tell me what you think!**


	6. Chapter 6

Kurt sat glumly in a BreadstiX booth, staring down at the photo in his hand. In the image he was dressed in a Dalton uniform, with Blaine next to him. Both boys were beaming from ear to ear and pumping Mr Schuester's hand energetically. The photograph had been taken years ago, the day that the Warblers and New Directions had tied at Sectionals. New Directions had, of course, gone on to steamroll everyone in their way and take their first national title since Mr Schue was a student, but Kurt would always remember the feeling of pride that day, when Blaine had hugged him excitedly and beamed with shining eyes. Blaine had been his closest confidante, the virtuous mentor he turned to whenever he needed a shoulder to cry on.

And now he was sitting in a jail somewhere in Lima, being questioned about Santana's murder.

Kurt didn't believe a word of it, of course. Jesse he wasn't so sure about, but _Blaine_? Kurt knew he would never do what he was being accused of, in spite of the circumstances surrounding the discovery of the body. He knew his husband would never lay a finger on a woman, would never degrade someone as had happened to Santana. At the far side of the restaurant, the remaining patrons were waiting to give their statements to the police. Of course, they were all convinced of Blaine's guilt.

Puck's reaction Kurt could understand, Brittany's too. They were the ones who had been closest to Santana, who had loved her, and so he could understand them lashing out at the most obvious suspect, even if he didn't like it. But he thought the others would take Blaine's side. How could Finn possibly think that Blaine was capable of such a heinous crime? Or Mercedes, who had become the couple's closest friend after they left high school? He thought she would believe Blaine, but she was sitting as far away from Kurt as possible with her arm around Puck, trying to coax him into sipping some whiskey that the manager had found.

"Hey" a quiet voice asked beside him. Kurt looked up and found Sam smiling gently down at him. The man who had briefly been the object of his high school affections was holding two glasses of amber liquid. He offered one to Kurt, who took it gingerly. "Mind if I sit?"

Kurt merely nodded tiredly and budged up to allow Sam to slide into the booth next to him. The blonde man was pale and his hands were trembling.

"Are you OK?" Kurt ventured uncertainly. Sam, who had been staring across the room to where Quinn was giving her statement, jumped and then smiled sheepishly.

"I guess so. It was just a big shock, that's all. I saw Santana and I thought- I thought, what if that had been Qu- I mean, I thought of Maddie and I just... I..."

"Do you think Blaine could have done it?" Kurt asked quietly. Sam stared at him in surprise before remembering himself. "I know you didn't know him that well, but the others have just- just assumed that he... that he..."

"They're in shock," said Sam, his tone gentle. "Their friend was just _murdered_ and they need someone to blame. I don't think he did it Kurt, and I think deep down they don't think he did either. You've just got to stay strong for Blaine, and everything'll work itself out."

Kurt noticed the forced brightness in the other man's voice, but nonetheless he felt a surge of gratitude towards Sam. He smiled weakly and gulped down his whiskey.

"I hope so," he whispered. "Because I'm not sure how long I can stand them all hating him."

Sam snorted and nudged him gently in the ribs. "Dude, you put up with Karofsky and came out the other side, didn't you? I think you can handle this."

"Thanks Sam," Kurt said softly. "I-I think I'm going to head back home for a while, try to get some sleep or something. Do you- do you need somewhere to stay? Puck doesn't exactly look up to entertaining..."

"That'd be great Kurt, I'll just go grab my stuff from Puck's place and I'll meet you at yours."

Kurt nodded and slid out of the booth. He took a few steps, faltered and glanced back over his shoulder.

"Oh and Sam?" he said.

"Yeah?"

"If you're still in love with her, you should tell her."

"Dude, what are you talking about? I'm engaged."

"But to the right girl? Sam, you've got to make the most of every moment you have with the one you love, you never know when they'll be taken away. Just look at Puck and Santana."

Sam just stared blankly at him and Kurt turned on his heel and strode away.

"I'll see you soon Sam," he said loftily, leaving the blonde football player staring moodily into the depths of his whiskey. As the door swung shut behind Kurt, Sam found himself glancing at Quinn's familiar figure, floating away from the policeman and over to Mike, Rachel and Finn. She was as lovely as he remembered, even with a sickly grey sheen washing over her high cheekbones and tears spilling down her face.

Sam shook himself; he should call Maddie, tell her what had happened. He stared at her number on the screen of his cell phone for a long moment, finger hovering over the 'dial' button, before flipping the phone shut and downing the rest of his whiskey.

/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/

Mercedes had left Puck in his booth- the man was in no position to provide decent company- and came to sit with Tina. The woman she had been so close to in high school, before life and careers had gotten in the way, was sitting alone, gnawing on her bottom lip as she always did when she was struggling to suppress emotion.

"I can't believe this Mercedes," she whispered hoarsely as the larger woman enveloped her in a comforting cuddle. "How could they... how could- _Santana_? I mean, it's like something out of a bad horror movie, you know? This sort of thing just doesn't happen in Lima."

"I know honey, I can't believe it either," said Mercedes. She hung her head. "This is all my fault."

"What?"

"I-I'm the one who asked Jesse to come back here with me," she explained in a pained whisper. "If I hadn't- if I hadn't invited him, then none of this..."

"_You_ asked him to come back?" Tina asked quietly. Mercedes nodded, shamefaced.

"He came into the bar I work in, completely off his face, and I felt sorry for him. He came back here with me. I _led_ him to her."

Tina took Mercedes' hand with the gravest of expressions on her usually bright features. She bit her lip anxiously and glanced around to see if Puck or Brittany were within earshot. The tall blonde was sitting dumbly in Artie's lap, staring vacantly into space as her husband stroked her tearstained cheeks with tender care. Puck was sitting alone in a booth across the restaurant from them. Rachel, Mike and Finn hovered nearby, just far enough away to allow him to be by himself but also close enough if he should need them. Tina leaned close to Mercedes and whispered conspiratorially:

"I know it seems pretty obvious that it was them, I know what we saw. But 'Cedes, I don't think they did it."

"_What_?"

"The more I think about, the less likely it seems. Those two had never even crossed paths before the funeral, and yet they somehow decided since then to murder and r- to attack Santana like that? It doesn't feel right. I know what Jesse was like in high school Mercedes, I remember the egg incident as well as anyone, but _murder? _If you ask me, he's way too spineless for something like that. And as for Blaine," Tina continued with a sigh. "He adores Kurt, a blind person could see that. Why on earth would he want to do something like this? The guy's never so much as laid a finger on another human being, even that time when Karofsky jumped him and Kurt after Regionals."

"I know, I know," Mercedes said impatiently. "But they were found... they were..."

commotion. The back entrance is right by the bathrooms. I think they were trying to help her, and I said as much to the police."

"But Tee, if they didn't do it, then who? That photo... it was obviously planned."

Tina gulped and glanced around edgily. She lowered her voice again.

"Didn't Matt go out that way to 'make a phonecall'?"

"Matt? Matt _Rutherford_? Tina, are you crazy? That boy was the worst player on the McKinley football team because he didn't want to hurt anyone by tacklin' them!"

"I know, I know, but think about it Mercedes," Tina whispered frantically, as though she feared being overheard. "Why would he come back for the funeral? He wasn't even in glee that long, and he only really joined because Puck made him. He never showed any major interest like Mike, did he? And yet he just turns up at Mr Schue's funeral after years without talking to any of us? You know he had history with Santana."

"Yeah, a high school crush! I thought I liked Kurt in school, but you don't see me goin' batshit and killing him!" Mercedes hissed, but a bubble of unease rippled in the pit of her stomach.

"Didn't you find it weird that he just bolted after the police interviewed him?" Tina asked. Mercedes was startled, and she glanced around as though expecting the former high-school football player to materialise from thin air. "The minute they were done, he hightailed it out of here. Said he wanted to go home. He didn't even ask if there was anything he could do, Mercedes."

A cold shiver ran down Mercedes' spine, travelling up Tina's slim arms. The two women shared a terrified glance and huddled closer to each other.

"We have to tell the police," Mercedes said after a long moment of tense silence. Tina nodded.

"I know. But they won't take much notice until they find some DNA and realise it doesn't match Blaine and Jesse."

Mercedes shivered again as the two of them scuttled over to where a burly middle-aged detective was quizzing Jaycee the waitress. All eyes in BreadstiX followed them curiously, but they were careful to keep their voices low as they explained their suspicions.

After all, there was no point in making people any more edgy than they already were.

/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/

Blaine sat in the small, bare cell picking at the tiniest of holes in the thin duvet. He breathed in and out slowly, his eyes resolutely closed. He hated small spaces.

This was some sort of sick nightmare. He had come to Lima with Kurt for a simple funeral service, and now he was in some grimy police holding cell, held on suspicion of murdering a woman he knew little about, apart from the few titbits he had gleaned from Kurt over the years. He had only met Santana Lopez a handful of times, and most of those were backstage at showchoir competitions in high school. When he had seen her at the funeral, he had barely even remembered her name. He'd had to double check with Kurt.

_Kurt_.

Blaine pinched the bridge of his nose and released a shaky breath. Surely Kurt would know that this was all bullshit, that he would never have touched Santana. Yes, Kurt would believe him.

He just wished the police had the same knowledge of him as his husband. They had interrogated him for several hours, becoming increasingly aggressive when he failed to admit to this heinous crime which he had not committed. They had taken blood samples, done DNA tests. The works. And still he was stuck in this crappy cell. Somewhere along the row, he knew that Jesse St James was sitting in an identical holding cell. He wondered if he was as scared as he was.

He wondered how they had gotten into this mess.

They had been running late- Jesse had received an urgent call from L.A. just as Blaine pulled up outside the Chang house to collect him and they had ended up running seriously late by the time Jesse hung up apologetically with the news that his agent had managed to sign him up for Dancing With the Stars. They had hit traffic, so both of them were flustered as they entered BreadstiX through the shortcut, the back entrance. They had heard a struggle in the ladies' room and a muffled scream, but then the lights went out and when they finally managed to stumble their way towards the source of the noise, it was too late. Santana was dead, and before they could do anything people were yelling, and Puck was swearing and hands were grabbing them, holding them until the police came. To arrest them.

"Anderson," a gruff voice said through the small slit in the door through which a tasteless plate of unidentifiable grey food had been delivered earlier. There was a creaking as the door slid open and he found himself glancing up at a gruff, rotund police officer.

"None of the prints or DNA on the vic were a match to you or Mr St. James. You're both free to go, sorry for wasting your time. Just doing our job."

He handed Blaine a small plastic bag containing his personal effects and led him out to the front desk, where Jesse was waiting. He looked livid, and was rubbing at the dark red welts the handcuffs had left in his wrists. When he saw Blaine, his expression cleared somewhat.

"I called us a cab," he explained shortly, shooting the officer filling out his paperwork a filthy glance. "Let's get out of here before I contract some sort of disease. Don't worry, I'm sure we'll be seeing each other again when I have my solicitor file a lawsuit for wrongful imprisonment," he called loftily over his shoulder to the handful of officers watching them leave.

"Could you not?" Blaine hissed as they stepped out into the dim light of the streetlamps overhead. "I don't want to give them any excuse to haul us back in there, do you?"

Jesse looked for a moment as though he would argue, but then he simply sighed huffily and stalked down the steps outside the police building.

"Cab's collecting us at the end of the block," he called to Blaine, who had to jog to keep up with his long strides. "I didn't want them picking me up outside a police station. Paparazzi, you know."

Blaine rolled his eyes, amused but more relieved than anything to have the stodgy night-time air fill his lungs. The entire time he was in that goddamned cell he had felt like some invisible hand was squeezing his lungs into nothingness.

They were about a hundred yards from the cab when it happened.

There was a noise like a car backfiring, and Blaine jumped about a foot in the air before chuckling at his own childishness. Jumpy much?

And then he saw Jesse.

The other man had drawn to a stop. There was something eerie about the way he held himself, and when he turned to face Blaine, his features were a mask of shocked agony. His eyes widened and then glossed over as he toppled to the ground, as limp as a ragdoll. Blood spread freely across his chest.

Blaine wheeled around desperately, but he was too late. Another whip crack, and then a compact, hard pain in his chest, a little above his heart. He stared down at the scarlet stain spreading across his chest in surprise. Kurt would never forgive him. He had bought him this shirt for their anniversary, and blood would never come out. His vision blurred as he fell forward languidly, lethargically. His cheek met cold, dirty pavement as darkness tugged at the corners of his vision. He heard hurried footsteps, a voice telling someone, the taxi driver maybe, not to move. He saw a pair of black ankle boots inches from his face and then a piece of paper was dropped in front of his eyes. He could make out Kurt's face, but the other figure in the photo had been scribbled out in red Sharpie.

_Kurt_, he thought weakly.

And then everything went black.

**/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/**

**Please don't hate me- trust me, I feel bad enough as it is.**

**Apologies for not updating sooner- my only excuse is that college is simply crazy at the moment. I'm training to be a teacher and I'm getting ready to go out on teaching practice. That equals zero leisure time right now, but I felt so bad about leaving it so long without updating that I had to add this chapter. I hope it was worth the wait.**

**Once again, thanks to everyone who has read/alerted/favourite/reviewed since my last update. Special thanks to those who dropped me a review (and apologies if I forget to mention anyone!) : FireApe, melandra, ajp2281, AngieHM, Bonesluver, xXGleekFreakXx, sdmwd1115, gleegee, swimgirl822, Lizardgirl7, Macie and Gleek4lyfe. I've got some very interesting suggestions on who the killer might be so far, but I'd love to hear what people think now. Makeovers are like crack to Kurt, reviews are like crack to me...**

**Thanks for reading!**


	7. Chapter 7

The atmosphere in the Hummel-Hudson household was bleak. The small living room was overflowing with people; the twins had been sent upstairs to their bedroom while the adults attempted to come to terms with the day's events. Carole, scared and uncertain, had begun to make tea that nobody wanted to drink. A scattering of mismatched mugs and cups sat untouched on the coffee table, as cold as the silence that filled the room. Burt was tapping his foot awkwardly against the carpeted floor.

Kurt sat in an armchair by himself, twisting his hands anxiously in his lap. He looked like the bottom had fallen out of his world. Sam hovered uncertainly at his shoulder, uncomfortable but unwilling to abandon the other man. Across the room from them, scarlet beneath Sam's accusatory gaze, Finn sat on the sofa next to Rachel. Tina and Mercedes stood in the middle of it all, looking lost for words. They were in no-man's land, caught somewhere between believing Blaine to be innocent and vilifying him.

"Where are the others?" Tina asked Mercedes in an undertone, breaking the silence. Sam and Rachel's gaze flickered towards them, but neither Finn nor Kurt seemed to notice.

"Quinn and Mike both went home," said Mercedes. "Puck's at his place, I think, and Artie brought Britt back to Santana's."

"Was that a good idea?"

"I don't know," Mercedes sighed with a hopeless shrug of her shoulders. "I think Brittany just wants to be close to Santana, or at least what's left of her."

"And what about... you know..."

"No sign of him. The police have got an alert out though."

"What's the point?" Kurt snapped from his seat, a hysterical note filtering through his voice. "Everyone's already convinced that Blaine and Jesse did it, aren't they? Why don't they just toss them in the electric chair and have done with it? That'd do the trick, right Finn?"

"Kurt," Rachel said softly, beseechingly.

"No, Rachel!" said Kurt, his voice unnaturally loud. "Finn's so sure that they did it, why not go the whole hog? It's not like there's even the slightest chance that they're innocent, is it Finn?"

A lone tear trickled down his cheek as he glared at his step-brother, breathing heavily with exertion. The expression on his face was terrible, a chilling mixture of hurt betrayal and cold fury. Sam glanced from one man to the other, an action mimicked by both Rachel and the brothers' parents. Tina and Mercedes merely fidgeted awkwardly. Finn had the decency to look ashamed, and opened his mouth to retaliate when a loud beeping noise rang out in the small space. Kurt sprang to attention like a hunting hound, and a flicker of fear crossed Rachel's face as she gripped her fiancée's hand in a white-knuckled grasp.

"Sorry," Sam muttered, hastily fishing his cell phone from his pocket. "Maddie's probably wondering why I haven't called..."

He glanced at the screen in bemusement, however; the number was unfamiliar. Hesitantly, he accepted the call and pressed the phone to his ear.

"Uh- hello?"

"S-sam?"

"_Quinn?" _Sam asked incredulously. He would, of course, recognise her voice in a heartbeat. But the tone was unfamiliar to him, shaky and almost frightened. "Quinn, are you OK?"

"Wh- oh yes, yes I'm fine," she replied distractedly. "I'm... Sam, I'm at Puck's. I wanted to stop by, see if he was OK , but he's not in a good headspace. I'm sort of freaking out over here, he's acting really erratic and I was just wondering if... I mean, you two were such good friends back in high school... and he just needs someone here, and I can't do it by myself and-"

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes," Sam interrupted her shortly. "Hold tight Quinn, don't let him do anything stupid."

"Thanks Sam. See you soon."

Sam hung up and instantly became aware of seven pairs of eyes locked on him.

"It's Puck, he's having some sort of freakout. Quinn needs help. Dude," he said hesitantly, patting Kurt's shoulder. "Will you be OK here?"

"Go take care of Puck," Carole piped up. "We can handle things here."

Sam nodded gratefully. "Call me if you hear anything," he tossed over his shoulder, grabbing his car keys. The door slammed behind him, leaving the others locked in uncertainty. Kurt caught Mercedes' eye with a hint of his old high school mischief.

"Lady Lips still has it bad," he murmured with a ghost of a smile. A short, startled bark of laughter escaped Mercedes, and it was the beginning of the flood. Perhaps it was the hysteria of the situation, but soon they were all laughing, animosity forgotten. Finn and Burt's low bass laughter harmonised with the gentler tinkling giggles of the girls, Kurt's wry chuckle landing somewhere in the middle.

And then a phone rang again.

Kurt wiped a tear of mirth from his eye and answered his cell phone.

"Hello?" he answered lightly. There was a long, tense pause as the caller spoke in a spit-fire monologue. At once, the colour drained from his face and trembles began to erupt through his body.

"Thank you," he whispered shakily, and hung up. He stared down at the phone for a moment before remembering himself and then turned his gaze on Finn. "Looks like you were wrong," he said quietly, getting unsteadily to his feet. "Blaine's in hospital. He's been shot."

/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/

Artie sat hopelessly in his chair in the doorway of Santana Lopez's bedroom. His wife was sprawled across the comforter in a heap, a nightshirt clutched to her chest. She lay perfectly still, with her back to him, but Artie could hear the soft snuffling of her sobs, muffled slightly by the material of the comforter.

"Britt," he said gently, wheeling inches closer to her. "Britt baby, you need to get out of here, it's not healthy."

"She was a good mom," Brittany said in a quiet, broken voice that made Artie's heart twinge painfully in his chest.

"I know she was Britt."

"What'll happen to Carmen now?"

"I- I don't know. She'll stay with family for a while, I guess."

"San didn't like it when Carmen had to go away."

"It's like you said, she was a good mom."

"But now Santana has to go away," Brittany whispered, hugging her best friend's nightshirt closer to her. Artie wheeled himself right into the room and up against the bed. He reached out a hand and stroked Brittany's long blonde hair, spilling down the nape of her neck and across the dark red comforter.

"Yeah Britt, she does," he sighed heavily. Brittany pulled herself upright almost grudgingly, and her eyes were misty with tears. She threaded her fingers into Artie's and tilted her body towards him.

"I'll miss her," she whispered hoarsely, brokenly. Artie couldn't find the right words to give her comfort; he simply nodded gently and allowed her to draw solace from his touch. He wasn't quite sure how long they sat like that, unspeaking and grieving in the dead woman's bedroom, but eventually he became aware of the noise of fist on wood. Somebody was at the door.

"I'll get it," he said tenderly, releasing Brittany's hand and pressing a kiss to her forehead. She gave a sad, sleepy smile. "You should try to get some sleep Britt."

She nodded, and as Artie wheeled out to Santana's front door Brittany laid her head down on her best friend's pillow and closed her eyes, slipping into a dreamless, emotionally exhausted slumber. She didn't hear the commotion outside the door, or the loud clattering noise.

She didn't see the dark figure standing over her either, or the photograph in its gloved hand.

/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/

"Quinn?" Sam called cautiously as he climbed the stairs to Puck's apartment. No response. As he neared the door, he realised with a stirring of unease that it was open. "Quinn? Puck? It's me, Sam."

There was still no reply. Sam gulped and quickened his pace. A small voice at the back of his mind, which sounded suspiciously like Rachel, was telling him that he wasn't supposed to worry about Quinn anymore, that he was with Maddie now. But Sam couldn't help the quickening of his pulse as he neared the door; maybe he was just on edge after what had happened to Santana, but he didn't like the idea of Quinn in danger. Of Quinn scared, like she had been on the phone.

But it was just because of Santana.

"Puck, bro are you here?" Sam called as he stepped across the threshold. Nobody answered him, but when he stood still he could hear sounds coming from inside the apartment. Crying, unintelligible murmuring, the shattering of glass.

"Puck, _please_..."

Quinn.

Quinn pleading. Quinn afraid. Quinn.

Sam dashed to the door of the bedroom he knew to be Puck's. His breath hitched in his chest as he gripped the doorknob in a sweaty fist and pushed the door open. For a moment he stood framed in the doorway, breathing heavily, as he surveyed the scene before him.

Quinn was standing with her back to him, arms held out in front of. Her shoulders were shaking, and Sam knew immediately that she was crying. She turned to him, her cheeks pale and tear-stained, and made a hopeless little gesture to the figure by the window.

Puck stood swaying, gazing down at the street below with a hollow, deadened gaze. Even from the door, Sam could smell the sharp scent of alcohol, and he guessed that Puck must have had much more than the glass of whiskey in BreadstiX. He was holding a red bra in his hands, and the scene would have seemed sleazy had it not been for the agony which clearly coursed through him. He took no notice of either Quinn or Sam, merely pressing his cheek to the cold glass and taking another slug from the bottle perched on the sill next to him.

"Puck," the blonde woman repeated, a tremor in her voice. "Puck, won't you come back to my place? Just for tonight at least?"

"I'm fine here," he replied, and the quiet lack of emotion in his voice chilled Sam more effectively than Quinn's voice on the phone earlier.

"You're not fine," Quinn persisted, whirling around to Sam with a look of desperation marring her pretty features. "Sam, tell him!"

"Dude, Quinn's right," Sam said in a soft voice.

"I'm fine here," repeated Puck.

"I don't think you are, man," Sam said reasonably. He moved slowly across the room, towards Puck. The other man's face remained surly, stony, but the closer Sam got the more sure he was that he could see despair shrouded somewhere in the hardness in Puck's eyes. "Come on, just one night. Just so Quinn feels better, you know what a mother hen she is."

Puck's gaze slid edgily to Quinn, looking imploringly at him. For a moment he just looked at her, and then he shook his head as though dislodging a pesky fly.

"No, no I can't. I-I just wanna be alone Evans."

"I know you do man, but we can't just leave you here. You can go to Quinn's, and just stay in the guest room all night if you want."

"Of course," Quinn nodded eagerly. "You don't even have to talk to me if you don't want to."

"Neither of you get it," Puck sighed heavily. He turned his body slowly, tiredly, so that he was facing the pair of them fully. "I just want to feel close to her, and here's the only place I can do it. I wanted to go to her place, but I-I couldn't do it. Britt's there, and I think if I saw her I'd just... I'd lose it altogether. So I just want to stay here, where I can remember her the way I want to. In my arms, sleepin'. Peaceful, you know? Human. And making _me_ human. 'Cos when she lay in that bed with me, I could feel, really _feel_. And I have to hold onto that memory, because if I don't I don't think I'll ever feel properly again. She's the one who made me feel, and I never told her that. And now she-she's gone, and I'm scared, Evans. I'm scared that if I forget how to feel, I'll forget her."

Sam and Quinn stood stock still, staring. Neither of them had ever heard Puck speak so much, or with such raw emotion. The dead look in his eyes was gone, but what replaced it was worse. His brown eyes were wild with emotion and he was gasping for breath, clutching Santana's bra to his chest as though he was holding himself together with it. The whole thing became too much for Quinn, who brushed past Sam and ran to Puck, enveloping him in a tearful embrace. The two of them were crying now, and Sam felt close to tears himself. He watched dumbly as Quinn held Puck to her, the pair of them shaking with suppressed emotion. Puck buried his face in Quinn's pale blue blouse, shuddering and gasping for air. Quinn glanced at Sam over their former classmate's shaven head, the expression on her face pained and lost. Her face screamed _"Help me. Help me help him."_

It was this, rather than Puck himself, that shook Sam into action.

"Dude," he said hoarsely. "How about a compromise? We can stop by Santana's place on the way to Quinn's, OK? You can take as long as you like there, and we'll be with you the whole time, so you won't freak out. Then you can stay in Quinn's guest room, so you won't be alone."

"We won't let you forget her Puck," Quinn said with quiet determination. She took his chin and gently forced it upwards with a sad smile. "We won't. We'll help you to hold onto her."

Puck nodded slowly, swiping at his red, swollen eyes. He looked almost like a small child lost in the supermarket without his mom.

"OK," he whispered shakily. "OK."

Relief washed over Quinn's face and she beamed at Sam as he came to take one of Puck's arms. The other man looked almost ashamed as, lethargic with grief, he let Quinn and Sam take most of his weight and steer him out of the apartment.

Together they slid him into the back seat of Sam's car. Quinn leaned in and fastened his seat belt before turning to Sam.

"Can I ride up front with you?" she asked hoarsely. "I-I can't look at that face."

Sam nodded wordlessly and the pair of them slid into the front seats. Sam silenced the radio and pulled away from the kerb. They had been driving a little under five minutes when a small hand slid over his on the gearstick and gave it a gentle squeeze.

"Thanks for this," Quinn said quietly. She looked awkward, uncertain. They had left things on such bad terms when they broke up, but now after all these years, they had been thrown back together. She bit her lip, not knowing how Sam would react to this tentative olive branch. Sam smiled slightly and squeezed her hand in return.

"Any time. Haven't I always used to come running when you needed help?"

"I guess so," Quinn said quietly. She glanced into the back seat, where Puck was dozing fitfully. "It's good to see you again Sam."

Sam paused for a moment, considering what she had just said. He wasn't quite sure how to react. After a couple of minutes of tense silence, he shot a glance sideways at Quinn, who looked apprehensive.

"I- it's good to see you too," he said finally. "I- missed you."

The pair of them smiled shyly and Quinn squeezed his hand again. In the backseat, Puck shouted out in his sleep and the pair pulled their hands away guiltily. Quinn looked out the window, a dull flush creeping across her full cheeks.

"We're here," she said softly. "Wait here with Puck, will you? I'll just go make sure that it's- OK to bring him in there."

Sam nodded and she clambered out of the car. She paused for a moment outside the door and then stuck her head back inside the car.

"Sam?" she said tentatively. "I missed you too."

Before he could reply, she had disappeared again, trotting along in her kitten heels. Sam swivelled around in his seat to check on Puck. The other man had woken up, and he gave Sam a knowing look with tired eyes. The pair of them sat there in silence, not certain of what they should say to each other, awaiting Quinn's return. After a couple of minutes, Sam began to feel a prickle of anxiety. Where was she?

And then he heard the scream.

He wasn't sure which of them moved first, but then both he and Puck were hurtling from the car, sprinting towards the apartment block.

"Quinn!" Sam hollered. "Quinn!"

They found her in the doorway, huddled in on herself and hyperventilating. She didn't say a word, just pointed a shaky hand behind her. Her face was deathly pale, and it was with trepidation that Sam moved past her, Puck on his heels.

Sam gagged. Puck swore under his breath.

Artie Abrams lay at the foot of the stairs, spread-eagled. A trickle of blood ran from his ear and his glasses were broken. His chair lay a couple of feet away, a mangled mess of metal. His face was contorted with panic and his eyes stared without seeing. A photo lay by his right hand, a snapshot of Artie and Mr Schue in matching wheelchairs taken after the Proud Mary performance. Artie's face had been scribbled out in red Sharpie.

"Brittany," Puck whispered. Something in Sam stirred and the pair of them took off up the stairs, feet pounding against the old wood. They burst through the open apartment door. Sam paused, uncertain about where to go, but Puck made his way to Santana's bedroom without skipping a beat. Sam almost ran into him, frozen in the doorway.

Brittany sat on Santana's bed, blindfolded, gagged and with her hands and feet bound. On the wall behind her, a message was daubed in red paint.

_NOT JUST YET._

/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/

**A/N: Apologies (once again) for the lack of updates. Things are just crazy right now, but in a month or so college will finish up and then I'll have loads more free time. Thanks to everyone who's sticking with me, even though I take so long between posts.**

**Special thanks to those who have reviewed since the last chapter: Em'sPride, swimgirl822, Tinkerbell220, One Fine Wire, xXGleekFreakXx, AngieHM, FireApe, hpfanandgleekx, ajp2281, TheBestDamnThing96, melandra, Lycoris B, laura and M.S. Nyde. I really appreciate the positive feedback!**

**I'd still love to hear thoughts on who the killer is, and who you want to see survive (or die, if you're feeling particularly vicious...)!**

**Thanks for reading!**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: OK, first of all I applaud anyone who is still reading this. I had put this story on hiatus and really couldn't see myself finishing it, but in recent times some lovely, encouraging reviews brought me back to it. So if anybody happens to have maintained a faint interest in Old Wounds after all this time, you have the following readers to thank: Eirinn Croi, amy819 and dannylindsay101.**

**Also, thanks to everybody else who has reviewed since the last (read: prehistoric) update: Tinkerbell220, sdmwd1115, swimgirl822, omgezuz33, Readingtoomuch, C.C. Nyde, xXGleekFreakXx, PotterGleek94, Bonesluver, ajp2281, TheBestDamnThing96, gleeddicted, ., laura, dancingdreamers, mumbles64, Mijah, Gleek4lyfe, GleekFreak, Me and DweezyMe. Your support is much appreciated.**

**Again, apologies about the lack of updates, but I've caught the bug again so expect more frequent addition of chapters!**

**Kisses,**

**Ciara **

**/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/**

Rachel Berry was in the bathroom of the Hummel-Hudson household, back pressed to the door and breathing erratically. Upstairs, two police officers were interviewing Finn. Or 'asking a couple of questions' as they put it, but it all came down to the same thing. Santana, Artie and Jesse were dead, and Blaine was lying in a medically-induced coma in Lima General. The link between the attacks was obvious; all of the victims had some connection to New Directions. Her former glee club. And, as a result, over the last few days the police had begun asking questions. Everyone with any link to the group was a point of interest, even though they all had rock-solid alibis to rule them out as suspects. The only blots on the copy book were Jesse, Blaine and Matt. Blaine and Jesse, understandably, had been cleared of suspicion, although it was too late in Jesse's case. Matt, on the other hand, was missing in action. Nobody had seen him since Santana had been discovered in the BreadstiX bathroom, and that interested the investigating officers greatly. Everyone was being questioned about him, and it would be Rachel's turn shortly.

She knew she should be thinking about that. She knew she should be focusing on Kurt and Brittany and Noah, and on all the others who had lost friends. She knew _she_ should be mourning their loss, or visiting with Blaine or _something_, but she was finding it hard to focus on anything but the matter immediately at hand.

She was late.

That in itself wasn't unusual. Rachel was often a couple of days late in times of stress; auditions, dealing with pesky understudies and, apparently, murder investigations. But a couple of days was the extent of it. Now she was two weeks late and she couldn't put it to the back of her mind any longer.

Which had led to her locking herself into the bathroom while the police talked to Burt, Carole and now Finn. She knew there was a female police officer outside the door, probably wondering what was taking her so long, but all she could concentrate on was the small white stick clutched in her sweaty palm.

It wasn't that she didn't want to have children with Finn. In fact, the opposite was the case. Rachel loved Finn more than anything, even more than her Tony award, and she couldn't imagine anything more perfect than starting a family with him. Some day. Some day in the future, when she was old enough to give up her part to Tessa with good grace. Some day when they were married. She wanted a family, and she wanted it with Finn. She just wasn't sure if she could cope with one now, in the middle of everything that was going on.

She couldn't open her eyes.

If she opened them she would see the result, and if she saw the result then she would have to deal with the fallout.

"Miss Berry?" the female police officer called through the door. "We're ready for you now."

"Just a minute," Rachel said desperately, her voice little more than a squeak. She was trembling from head to toe and she was pretty sure her nervous system was collapsing by degrees every second she stood there. Errant thoughts of Broadway and that dreadful Tessa creature and Jesse, Artie and Santana lying cold in a morgue with nobody to keep them safe ran through her mind and she felt herself sliding to the floor, that fateful stick still clasped in her sweaty palm.

"Miss Berry?"

Rachel took a deep, shuddering breath and opened her eyes, glancing down at the little white stick. This was it.

"Miss Berry, I'm going to have to ask you to open this door, or I will have to use force."

"Don't worry," Rachel said calmly, and she rose to her feet with the grace she had developed over years and years of ballet lessons, combed her fingers through her hair and plastered on a well-practised showface before opening the door and following the police woman upstairs for questioning, leaving the pregnancy test tucked out of sight in the medicine cabinet above the sink.

The two blue lines seemed to glare accusingly at her as she shut the door, and she could feel their pull the whole way through her interview with the police officers.

/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/

Tina felt sick. She was sitting in a darkened room in Lima Police Station with a glass of water poised on the table in front of her and a grim-faced policeman facing her with a notepad in his huge hand. She hadn't expected this; she had come here with Mercedes, planning on relaying their suspicions about Matt to the police so that they would _do_ something instead of just sitting around waiting for autopsy results. But no sooner had they identified themselves to the young rookie manning the front desk than two officers had taken them by the elbow and brought them to separate interview rooms. Instead of being allowed to tell the police what she knew, or at least suspected, about Matt's involvement in the deaths of their friends and former classmates, the officer had quickly launched into a series of questions.

Where was she when Santana had been killed? Artie? Jesse and Blaine, where had she been when they were shot?

Could anybody confirm this?

Had she noticed anything suspicious?

Was she worried for her own safety?

Could she think of anyone who might have a grudge against any of the victims, or against any of them at all?

And finally she got the opportunity to tell them what she thought. How Matt had been conspicuous by his absence when Jesse and Blaine had been found with Santana's body, and how he had disappeared immediately afterwards without a word to any of them. How he was the only one who had been unaccounted for when Jesse and Blaine were taken down and when Quinn, Sam and Puck had discovered the carnage at Santana's apartment. How he had always been quiet, a little aloof even.

How she thought it was him.

"You should be out there, finding him, doing _something_!" Tina told the officer opposite her, slamming her fist into the table with determination that would put Rachel or Kurt to shame. "My friends have died, any one of us could be next-"

"Why are you so sure of that?" the officer asked quickly with a curious scowl. Tina growled in spite of herself and pinched the bridge of her nose.

"Have you been paying any attention to what I've been saying?" she snapped, knowing in the back of her mind that this was a bad idea and that she should just shut up and toe the line, but people were dying. Her _friends_, her Artie, were gone and these people were too busy following procedure and going by the book to hunt down Matt Rutherford and make him pay for what he had done. "Everyone who's died, they've all had some connection to glee club. Why can't you work that angle?"

"Ms Cohen-Chang, we're doing our best here-"

"Well you're not doing enough!" she interrupted, her voice shrill with frustration. "Get more people out there, find him, stop this before somebody else gets hurt!"

Before the officer could reprimand her for her outburst, the door to the interview room opened and the rookie from the front desk poked his head around the door. His expression was grim and he gestured for the investigating officer to join him. The burly cop shot Tina a scowl before heaving himself to his feet and engaging in a quick whispered conversation that she couldn't hear. Eventually he nodded and the young officer excused himself hurriedly. Her unnamed interviewer returned to his seat and placed his hands palms up on the table.

"What would you say if I told you your theory about Matthew Rutherford was wrong?" he asked, one eyebrow quirked. Tina narrowed her eyes at him and ran a hand through her shimmering dark bob.

"I'd ask how you can be so sure, considering that your lot have been... less than successful thus far," countered Tina, a challenge in her voice. She glared and jutted out her chin as firmly as she could manage. A small voice in the back of her head, coming from out of nowhere, piped up to remind her of how much her confidence had grown from the shy, subdued high school sophomore who faked a stutter to avoid contact with other people. Her untimely reminiscing was cut short, however, by the officer's next statement.

"Matthew Rutherford was found dead at his home this morning, along with his wife and two daughters."

Tina felt her stomach swoop sickeningly as though someone had just poured a bucket of ice down her throat.

"I- what?"

"Neighbours in Fairfield reported a disturbance in the early hours of this morning. Matthew, Leah, Ruby and Colby Rutherford were dead when EMT's arrived on the scene, as was the family dog and a white rabbit belonging to Ruby Rutherford."

"I... I don't... I mean, how...?"

"There's more. A landlord on the other side of town found one of his tenants slaughtered in her apartment. A Miss Lauren Zizes."

Tina retched and had to clench the edge of the table to stop her head from swimming. This couldn't be happening.

"I- what? I-I mean... L-lauren and... and... _how_?"

"I'm afraid I can't release that information to a civilian, ma'am. I shouldn't even technically be telling you as much as I have, but the chief reckons you and your friends might be in danger-"

"You think?" Tina managed to spit out, her vision swimming. "What tipped you off?"

"Miss Cohen-Chang, I understand that you're in shock but-"

"Of course I am! Matt and Lauren, they're... I thought it was him! I've just spent how long telling you lot that it was Matt, that he was killing everyone and now... we waited too long! If your lot had listened earlier, he might still be alive, and his wife and little girls..."

Overwhelmed, she felt hot tears begin to spurt down her cheeks in angry rivers. She would usually be ashamed and swipe them away, determined to maintain a strong, calm facade. But there was nothing to be calm about anymore. Her friends were dead, and she owed it to them to show this pigheaded officer the damage the police were doing by going by the book. She stared stonily at him through the haze of tears.

"Are you done questioning me?" she asked coldly, feeling a lone tear travel the length of her upturned nose. "Can I go? I need to be with my friends."

The officer looked suspiciously at her and she gave a hysterical little scream.

"For goodness sake, the cops have been keeping their eyes on us since Artie was found! If one of us was doing this, you'd know by now."

The policeman nodded, almost to himself, and got to his feet.

"Alright ma'am, you can leave for now. But stay safe. The police will be trying to keep an eye on you and your friends, so just try to pretend like they're not there, alright?"

"Fine," Tina said, as civil as she could manage in the present circumstances. "Now can I just get out of here?"

"Sure thing. We'll be in contact."

Tina didn't even bother to reply. Instead she pushed past the policeman into the brighter corridor, hoping for a reprieve from the feeling of hopeless horror engulfing her. However, the lights in the corridor were too bright, the people too close, the faces too judgemental. Everything seemed to close in on her, the pain of loss and fear of being next constricting her airways until she felt lightheaded and bile rose in her throat. Blindly, she staggered into the nearest restroom and dived for the first available stall. Coughing and spluttering up all of her fears was a moment of strange relief, at least at first. Then it started to make her feel, if possible, more afraid. What really got to her was the not knowing. Not knowing if she would be the next to die, or if it would Rachel or Kurt or someone who hadn't joined them in Lima, like Lauren. Not knowing if the killer was even planning on striking again, or how long they would leave it. Not knowing if the police were getting any closer to apprehending the psycho. Not knowing what they looked like. It could be the old woman she had passed with Mercedes on the way here, or the angry young rocker who lived next to Quinn's place or even the busboy who had seated them at BreadtstiX. She was completely vulnerable, and she hated this sick freak for making her feel this way.

And then, as she raised a shaking hand to the tissue dispenser when a noise interrupted her frantic thoughts and chilled her to the bone.

Footsteps. Quiet at first, but growing louder and heavier until they came to a stop. Right outside the cubicle door. She froze in place, cowering in her sheer, slight blouse with the tissue poised halfway to her mouth. Then-

"Tina? You in here?"

"M-_Mike_?" she squeaked almost indignantly, and she heard a relieved sigh outside. A sigh she remembered.

"I thought it was you. Are you alright?"

"Fine," she replied, but she couldn't prevent her voice from shaking.

"You sure?"

"Certain," said Tina, reluctantly clambering to her feet and taking one last, slightly vindictive, swipe at her mouth before drawing back the bolt on the door and traipsing out to face Mike. Her former flame was thinner than she remembered, and not in a good way; she was pretty sure his collarbone shouldn't jut out like that. Furrows ploughed deeply into his forehead and his eyes were marred by heavy shadows and a deadened sadness in their depths. However, when Tina gave an awkward wiggle of her fingers, his relieved grin was the same one he had worn in high school.

"Glad you're OK," he said quietly, avoiding her gaze. "I've been in for questioning too, I'd just been let out when I saw you run in here. Figured whatever had happened got you pretty worked up since you didn't even notice it was the gents."

"Oh my-"

"It's fine, there's nobody else in here," Mike said gently as Tina flushed a rather flamboyant shade of red. "What happened? If you don't mind me asking that is?"

Tina hesitated. She had the feeling that she wasn't supposed to repeat what the investigating officer had told her. But on the other hand, Mike was bound to find out soon enough- the police wouldn't be able to suppress the media much longer- and he and Matt had been so close at school. Tina remembered how Mike used to tell her stories of the scrapes they'd gotten themselves into in elementary school and junior high, and how she'd helped him set up his webcam when they got home from Asian Camp so that they could stay in contact after Matt moved to Indiana. Matt had been Mike's best friend, the one who taught him his first tentative dance manoeuvres and the one who had agreed to try out for football with him even though he was more interested in joining the Black Student Union. Mike deserved to know.

Determinedly avoiding Mike's gaze, Tina gulped. "Matt's dead. Zizes too."

Silence.

Tina nervously tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear and chanced a glance upward. Mike wasn't looking at her- he wasn't looking at anything. His gaze was caught in some in-between place and he was trembling from head to toe. Tina realised with horror that the only time she had ever seen him look even remotely like this was when she had broken up with him. That remained her biggest regret in life: breaking up with Mike Chang the night of the homecoming dance because his mother had tried to force her into a more traditionally Asian dress. But this was worse, a hundred times worse. Tina felt sure he would faint or be sick. Or both.

"Mike," she said gently, placing a hand on his arm with ginger concern. "Mike, I'm so sorry."

"A-are you sure?" he whispered, and she nodded. Mike seemed to sag and before she knew what was happening he had collapsed against her, his face buried in her hair and his breathing ragged. Tina felt his emaciated form send shaking sobs rattle through both of their bodies and her heart twisted in her chest.

"I'm so sorry," she murmured, over and over again until his sobs subsided somewhat and she was left with a subdued, numb Mike Chang curled against her, breathing unevenly. It was weird; the events that had led them to this place, this moment, were so hideous and yet there was something familiar, almost comfortable, in the way their bodies curved to accommodate each other. "So, so sorry Mike."

"I can't stay here anymore," he whispered back, his voice a broken whisper. "I have to get out of this place, away from all this. I have to get back to New York."

"Mike, you're not thinking straight," Tina said gently, running her fingers through his hair. "Come on, you just need to calm down and we'll... we'll sort something out."

"Everyone's dying Tee!" Mike countered, his voice an octave higher than usual with a cocktail of conflicting emotions. "Matt and Jesse are both dead, I'm the only one left from my house. What if I'm next? Or what if... what if you are? I-I can't bare to stay here, I just... I can't."

Tina pulled away from him a little and saw no hysteria in his eyes. Just blazing fear and determination.

"You really mean it," she whispered in disbelief. "You're actually going to try to outrun this thing."

Mike nodded frantically and put his hands on Tina's shoulders. "I am. Matt only went as far as Fairfield, he didn't put enough distance between him and this horror. But I'm going to go to Columbus, get on a plane to New York and I'm never looking back."

"You think it'll be enough?" Tina asked, almost hopefully. She knew it was ridiculous, but already she was envisioning the life Mike could lead, far away from this death and destruction. Unafraid to look over his shoulder, because in a city of over eight million people, who could find him? No need to scrutinise every stranger's face, no need to wonder if he was about to become their next victim. Sure, the shadow of what had happened here would hang over him, but he wouldn't have to live in fear. He could be free, in as much as any of them could be now. The idea set a thrill of electricity through her and she realised immediately why.

"You're definitely going?"

"Yeah."

"When?"

"I'm taking my hire car to the airport as soon as I get home."

"Take me with you."

"I- _what_?"

"Take me with you. To New York."

"I- are you sure?"

"Positive," she said fiercely. "Please, Mike."

Mike seemed to deliberate for a moment, and then sighed. "Fine."

"You mean it?" Tina asked, hardly daring to hope.

"I've never been able to deny you anything Tina Cohen-Chang," Mike said softly, and he wrapped an arm loosely around her shoulders in an affectionate gesture. Tina smiled and reciprocated with a brief squeeze of her own.

"Thank you Mike. Really. I... I've missed you."

"Alright, alright, there'll be time for a soppy catch-up later," he huffed, but he smiled slightly out of the corner of his mouth. "Let's just do this."

/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/

Finn Hudson stood on the front porch of the Hummel-Hudson house, pacing anxiously. Rachel was still being interviewed, as was his mom. Burt was trying unsuccessfully to convince the two detectives in the front room to let Kurt have a grace period before they started pestering him. His stepbrother had been holed up at the hospital with Blaine for days now, Rachel seemed to be avoiding him and what with his house resembling something out of CSI, Finn was starting to freak out. He was supposed to be a leader, but he was at a loss for what to do.

"Grilled cheesus, what the hell is going on?" he muttered distractedly as the voices inside became consistently louder. That was all they needed, for Burt to have another heart attack.

He was almost grateful when his cell phone rang. Kurt's name flashed on the screen.

"Dude, I've been waiting for you to call!" he exclaimed in relief, pinching the bridge of his nose tiredly. "How's Blaine? Is Britt still with you? Are you OK? Should I come over there?"

Kurt's tired, weary sigh fluttered down the line and Fin could see his brother curled up in a chair next to his husband's bed, his hand clamped so tightly on Blaine's that it could cut off circulation in both of their arms.

"The same, yes, I honestly have no idea, yes please," he rattled off. The answers were devoid of emotion, the same responses he had been giving for days. It made Finn sad to hear his brother sounding like a ghost.

"Alright dude, I'll just grab a jacket and I'll be right over," he said in as cheerful a voice as he could manage under the circumstances, determined to be strong for Kurt. "I just want to ask Rach-"

**BANG.**

"Kurt, what was that?" Finn asked worriedly. His brother didn't respond. "Kurt, what's going on man?"

**BANG.**

"_Kurt?_"

Another bang. Whispered voices. The sound of the phone clattering to the ground.

Another bang.

Silence.

"Kurt?"


End file.
